.., and pull back. My thumb caresses her cheek now, slowly, softly. I put my cheek to hers, as my fingers find her ear lobe, stroking it, until my fingertips gently move down her neck. I feel her shiver as her hand covers mine.
I feel the tears forming, unbidden, but knowing they would make an appearance. I stroke her cheek with mine, wanting more than just this touch, wanting to be a part of her, or to be her, to never leave this happy home of her cheek. It’s warm here, comforting, it smells of her, her scent traveling through my nostrils and filling my head with a nectar sweeter than any flower, delicate as a dandelion in full bloom, one breath and the seeds fly away in wonder.
Our cheeks are wet, moisture bleeding from our eyes, melding into one rivulet, or pond, or swamp, mashed together, forced to meld into a pattern unseen by us, our concern for each other more important than the art our cheeks are creating.
We pull apart, eyes blurred by emotions, words go unsaid as her father yanks her away. I didn’t even feel the first blow, nor the pain it created, for that wasn’t real pain. Her brothers could pound on me all night long, I could only feel the pain of her, of a loss so deep nothing could touch it. The last thing I saw was her being shoved into a car. If I was lucky I would never see anything again.
We tried to escape our families. Tried so hard. They were at war, not us.
We were hapless beings torn in different directions, controlled by their anger, pushed into roles not suited for us. We knew what our future held. But that future would be denied.
Arid Testimony 