In hushed tones, like the breeze of summer
she spoke with me, and her fingers caressed my hand-
        like the ocean
                washing,
                brushing,
                smoothing
        over the sands of the beach,
        over the sands of time,
each little word healing another wound,
        every other word
                rubbing salt
        deepening healing wounds.

In harshly spoken monotones, much like the droning
of winter's frozen winds and snows, her nails clawing at my skin-
        like the hail,
                tormenting,
                hammering,
                shattering
        the glass of my house's windows,
        the glass of my invisible facade,
each accusation breaking another promised joy,
        every other word
                bringing grit
        into my once sparkling eyes.

Again I find myself murmuring in hushed tones,
remembering the days she caressed my hand-
        before she left,
                running,
                hiding,
                leaving
        this life behind,
        this love of mine,
every inaction another pang of guilt,
        every action another act of remorse.