She walks among the tombstones with an air of ease. If she knew I was watching, maybe it would not be so. The bleak graveyard accentuates the deep red of her dress and the rosy hue of her intoxicating presence. She’s been to a ball again.
I do not know if it is out of guilt or habit that she comes here tonight. She follows the familiar pathways back to me. To what’s left of me. She kneels in the dirt, cool wind playfully flicking her curls.
The pattering nuisance of the rain hammers harder, yet despite its efforts it soaks me not. My darling Portia is equally unperturbed. The rain bites at her porcelain skin. It flattens her hair to her flushed cheeks. It deepens the red folds of her gown into pools of fresh blood. No single tear mingles with the rainwater. If her body is far from me, her mind is further.
She lies a singular rose upon my earthen corpse and sits there, reminiscing. I look toward the house I once called my home. Lights engulf the outer porch and ballroom windows. Singing and merriment beckon from within. And yet my widow lies out here with me, allowing her foolish new husband to orchestrate this grand soiree without his sweet songbird.
I glide closer to her, hoping my ethereal senses will grant me just the smell of her perfume, the beat of her heart, the warmth of her chest. Not so. I want to feel the blood coursing through her veins. I want to feel her in my arms once again. Just once.
Once is enough.
She is too deep in thought to see me. I reach out to stroke her hair and she shivers uncontrollably. I put my arms around her, and her crimson lips turn purple. The heat is seeping out of her. I can almost feel it. So close! She tries to stand, but I won’t let her.
Finally, she sees me. She looks up with those wide hazel eyes and truly sees me. And her poor, frail, mortal heart ceases. She becomes as cold as me. I look upon her soft body one last time. Soon, my love.