Field of Resolution

And she lays there, all wrapped in white. The wind indolently lifts and drops various strands of her dark, chestnut hair. The voices follow me. Softly and solicitously. They attempt to re-awaken that opiate window. But they will fail, for the deep depressed shadow of the approaching storm remains palpable, and she can't open her eyes, forevermore grasped by the sweet, unscathed coma of her past. It would be imprudent for me to leave her so quickly. My hand precariously runs a redundant path over her cold, pale, forehead, and travels back onto her hair. Instantly, I can feel my heart jump as my body gives a deplorable shudder, and I try to hold back my tears. "You don't love me! But you will continue to act the way you do, and say the words you say! Why? Why do this?" My hand twitches as I start to feel those familiar guilty needles, pushing into my finger tips, and reminding me. I never answered her that night. I know I've ruined any chance I had. All my amenities lived in her...

I realize I hadn't noticed the voices cease. I then feel movement, under my hand. I look down. Her eyes are open, her cheeks flushed. She smiles a small, weak smile. Then, she pulls herself up and puts her arms around my neck, embracing, and disarming the guilty nightmare inside of me. I may be forgiven. I may get another chance. But I'm not making the same mistake again.

I'm not worth her pain.