She Sans Spark
What was he to her
It was as if the mirror
reflection of his eyes had been removed
with nothing left behind but the
jet black felt backing.
Yes, light traveled in,
but never outward.
Indeed, if you stood before him,
you felt as if you were being absorbed.
There on the far side of his eye sockets,
mighty stars had collapsed to black holes;
his dense gravity sucking in
all reflective surfaces to the point
you’d find every bit of sparkle,
every glistening surface…
everything you’d ever found radiant about yourself…
everything that passed before his eyes
grew dull, dingy, lifeless.
And this was who she was now…
This was who she’d become.
So why did she remain?
If she was truly nothing,
why was she not shed?
why was she not cast off?
why was she not discarded?
deep within her,
a small spark still remained.
Some aspect of
he had failed to locate, absorb and obliterate.
Perhaps that singular spark
was the one remaining thing he granted her,
for without it,
how could he define himself?
To be dark one must be relative
to that which is light,
and he would grant her that tiny existence
if only to prove his own.
And what if she herself should choose to
snuff out that final spark?
What if, by her own hand,
ceased to be?
Ah, but there are alternatives.
Instead, what if she simply chose to turn away?
To look anywhere else but at him?
To turn into the wind;
open all vents to the soul.
Embrace the wind and blow out the old cinders.
Bring that spark to a glowing ember.
stoke the hearth of a diminished heart;
incite the flame raging at her core.
Reclaim the torch,
irradiate outward and
burn away the darkness.
Becoming a beacon of self import,
she would move through the night,
a shower of sparks trailing behind her;
a wake of illumination, and she
feeling the impending glow of supreme supernova,
whilst darkness remains nothing but
a long forgotten shadow.
©05 Jack Hubbell