It's a poem. I swear. And it's a poem because I said it is. Have fun. It was done in about 10 minutes before work this morning. The first verse was really all that was meant to happen, the rest just kind of fell in. Interesting. Could perhaps use some revising. I'm not really sure. Maybe when I print it into a book. Maybe then. Who knows.
He had sent the invitation a week ago:
“For your going away: a party. Please respond.”
Finally the day was here. She was standing outside in a modest pink outfit.
He hurried Her in, and invited Her to have a seat.
He offered Her a drink, She accepted.
She was very polite. Why must it end like this?
He grinned to himself as He dripped the single drop of Life into Her drink.
He brought back their drinks on a reflective silver platter and set it down on the table between them.
She took Her cup and, midst casual conversation, drank down the whole thing, in about an hour.
He stared in anticipation.
Finally, he was rewarded with contractions in Her face, which quickly spread out around the rest of Her.
He asked how She was feeling.
Quite well. But you look a little pale around the edges. Is everything alright?
Suddenly He realized His mistake.
No, it must’ve been her cunning. He never made mistakes.
She knew! She KNEW!
Unfortunately, it was too late. He glanced at Her, in a panic.
It was apparent She had no idea that He had intended the Life for Her.
He felt it now, coursing through His entire body.
Finally, in His last moments, He was able to gasp a short farewell.
He fell forward and contemplated His appearance in the silver platter on the table.
What an interesting shade of purple the Life causes your skin.
That was the last thought He ever thought.
He had invited me over two weeks ago.
“For your going away” The letter had said. Then “Please respond.” As if I wouldn’t have without his insistence.
I accepted. It wasn’t unlike Him to invite me over.
I showed up that day in one of my more modest outfits, He gave me the creeps sometimes.
He invited me in, did He seem rushed? Perhaps, but then I was leaving the next morning.
He offered me a drink, and He had the most odd look in His eyes. Like someone waiting for a train. How odd, He should be thinking of trains. I was supposed to take a train the next day.
He brought back the drinks, was that a giggle in His voice? Not unusual. He was odd sometimes.
We drank, through casual conversation. My plans for the future. How He’d feel without me. We’d talked about this many many times. Would He never just let up?
Then I noticed He was turning purple! The color one turns when they have no air in their lungs. (Don’t ask how I know.)
Then He asked me how I was feeling. I was fine, but I mentioned He looked a little white around the edges.
Suddenly He was afraid. Very afraid.
I was still confused as he looked up at me, searching, for what?
Then I noticed the convulsions. Starting at His face, and working throughout the rest of His body.
Now I was on my feet, holding Him close. He whispered a labored “Farewell” as He fell dead in my arms.
He stared at the silver platter for a last second, then I noticed a smile on his lips. Very peculiar.
I left then, in fright. It didn’t occur to me to call anyone.
She was hiding something. It was obvious. There were no letters in Her house or His.
We even looked for imprints, like you get when you write with one paper on top of another. There’s always some form of imprint somewhere.
Three weeks ago, He died. We’re still trying to figure out what happened. He died of Life poisoning. A very rare drug, very hard to come by. No one carries it around here.
We found her pink outfit. Hardly modest. And there were small traces of Life all over it. They were left by fingerprints, which, unfortunately, were no longer readable. Whose fingerprints were they?
We found the cups. “His” fallen onto the floor and broken into five pieces, with the glass shards everywhere. “Hers” perched at the edge of the table.
There was no silver platter.
Finally, after His autopsy, it was apparent He had not known He was dying until a mere thirty seconds before it had happened.
Was the poison meant for Her? Or had she meant it for Him?
It was definitely Life. Only Life acts that quick.
Perhaps we shall never know. She’s good. Or honest. Who can tell, really.
