XXXV
She was there, looking out onto what was probably the balcony of her room, she had watched him get into the carriage that was taking him to his new prison. He looked out through the bars, the moon was in the last stages of its cycle. It had been nights since he had lingered to look at it, too lost in the beauty of his beloved, but now that she was gone the darkness had returned to frighten him and he sought the moon's faint light once more. An incurable absence. Was the moon as fragile as they were, or did she give a damn about the tears and pale pupils from the too many hours spent not sleeping and counting that had separated them? Who cared how far apart her eyes were if their gazes, lost in the wind between a balcony and the loggia, had merged? Could he still ask the moon for help?
- Writer
