A young man,

Age of twently-three, perhaps

Lays on his heart-broken bed.

Blankets and unwashed clothing

Litters his immediate

Surroundings.

His clothing he had

Forgotten

After bathing

In his sorrow.

Hands clutching tightly

On the bedsheets.

His tears roll down

His soft, heated cheeks.

They spot his

White

Pillow cases.

Hands still grasping for support.

A still small voice

Speaks to him.

His mind, it came from

To torment him

With questions of doubt.

"Where is she?"

His answer, soft and trembling,

"On an errand"

Answers to your mind never

Lie.

"Why?" A still small voice

Speaks.

"To secure her trust

With this

So-called God."

He will not believe,

Yet his faith in her is

great.

"Will she come back?"

It speaks once again.

"Yes."

Of course, she will,

He shall suppose

She will.

"How would you know?"

The voice whispers,

Yet tears his heart

To shattered glass.

Would he know,

If she weren't with him?

"I just do,"

The answer simplistic.

Don't lie,

Your answers to yourself

Are always true

And your mind knows it.

"Why?"

The question strikes

Him,

Testing him,

Creating him,

Carrying him.

His answer

Short and simple

Like always,

Yet powerful to

The core,

"She loves me."

Memories once locked

In the darkness

Of the soul

Arise to the surface

Of understanding.

His mind looks... back.

It pulls him to its

realm.

An image

Of love-making

Those which

Righteous call sin

Binds her with him.

She he loved,

No other.

Illuminating

Images of

Imagination.

His hand wrapped around

Her back as she

laid

On top

His lean,

Hard body.

Her body

Cold as stone

And clear as glass.

The body of a deceased being,

Without flesh.

Human flesh,

His collided

With solid air...

The love

No one else

knew,

Existed.