Leaving The Forest

Leaving The Forest

One evening when my hands got cold I saw Diana's childhood sweetheart staring from a window, her smile touched a little with the agony of the aloof.
Her eyes smouldered with regret, while her children tugged at her heavy skirts that had smothered the fire in her eyes after the last quiet evening under the bittersweet stars of June.
Her eyelid bristled involuntarily, the shadow of an unshed tear pricking at it unmercifully, threatening that it would slide from her glassy eye and burn the flesh of her husband's enfolding arms.
She fled the window, the tear still unshed, whispering its quiet venom to her, a thousand might-have-beens echoing her panicked footsteps down the hallway, fleeing the oblivious arms of her quiet life.
Huddled on the back step, she remembers the arrow points that she broke off in her heart when she said good-bye, leaving the heat of a passionate forest for the safety of one solemnly erect redwood she could cling to.
She slowly makes her way inside, the tears now flowing unchecked, hissing with embers of a self-destructive love she cast away but that burns her still.
That night she goes unprotesting to her husband's bed and grasping sinew-streaked secure arms. He knows not why she cries against his shoulder, and he knows better than to ask, fearing her unbridled fear and loathing of him.
The next morning she stands by the window, gazing out across her lonely street, the arrow points worming deeper into the throbbing mass she calls a heart. The ghosts of last night's tears are still on her face, whispering her sorrow back at her.
She made her choice so long ago, to leave the banks of an uncertain stream
And yet she lies uncertain still.