The Cross-Over. A tale of AIDS and desperation

It is night.


The man is sleeping.



As he slowly breathes
His diseased blood
Calmly steadily
Inexorably
Pervades his body ever more deeply
Day and night in rest or action
It won’t let go
It progresses.
But for the time being
He is oblivious
He is
Peaceful
The faint moonlight is calmly set
In the sleeper.


Oh but the woman
The woman who is mad with grief
She hovers above the quiet scene
Her crazy eyes whirlpool
And she sways and gasps and shakes.
In her hand, a knife.
A Knife.

She can’t stand it anymore
The malady within him
The shadow is so present
She cannot think of them apart
Not anymore
And that nightly silence
When her mind takes over
Billows forth avalanches of thoughts
And heart-splitting fracas she - must - keep inside.
She can’t disturb his sleep
But the roar is deafening
If she breathed at all
It would all come out
So she doesn’t breathe out
She blabbers
And sucks air in.

Tonight the pain is twisting her arm;
In her hand, a Knife.
And there she stands above his inert shape
A lunatic suicidal succubus.
Is there any answer come from the blade?

No….

It just answered a more ancient urge,
Now forgotten…
Now… what…?
How came she to be standing
Above the man she adores, at night
Wielding a knife
And the pain he caused her pouring out.

A detached part of her muses
How can my waves of despair not disturb the night?
She prays for an earthquake
To match and acknowledge her inner destruction
She sways in expectation…

Nothing happens.
It is only a human sized tragedy
His size, her size
And theirs to deal with
The cosmos doesn’t heed their smallness.


The man abruptly wakes to a sharp pain
In his arm
She is staring at the wound
In his arm
As innocent looking-poisoned blood gushes out.
Then,
He notices a twin wound on her palm
The hand of the desperate criminal
He sees her fascination
And how both cuts seem
To attract each other
As lips would join
And be sealed.