Each morning she would dress in a grey suit making only one change, a colourless shirt. Her hair twisted and knotted tightly to her scalp with six bobby pins. Today her shirt was crimson, her hair thrown loose. She looked alive. I watched her float above herself; I’m sure I saw her smile a sultry satisfaction as her lips touched her own. I wondered if this was an act of goodbye or an act of loving self acceptance.
Each night he would dress to kill inside his mafia fixation, he carried a knife and nightmares. On the city streets strutting with his crew he looked for fist connection spreading his peacock wings for all the half pretty girls that passed by. He was angry; I noticed it in the bile that slid down his chin. He looked dead. I watched him float above himself; I know I did for he shot a venom look right at me. He punched at his face, screamed wake up you motherfucker. Then took out his knife and sliced his own throat goodbye.
Each afternoon she rode the train it was a daily ritual, like eating breakfast, dressing and thinking a million thoughts. Her destination a train of strangers, they asked nothing they were living. She looked ready. I watched her float around the carriage stopping at each person to shake their still hand. I know for she threw me a serene smile that warmed the chill that had been shrouding my observations. She returned to her body and placed herself back inside. Then took my hand in a firm grip that I will never be able to shake off and spoke wisdom words.
One can’t forgive until they forget.