Black and White

By: Naraku's Miasma

7-22-04

"Alive? You call this being alive?"

Soon after, he asked for her return.

"There is no black and white," he said, "only shades of grey."

And she had left, but not for long. He knew what she had done. He had seen it in their faces. He pushed and bruised, pulled and scraped. He wanted it too. Time was slipping.

A year passed. "I can give you more," he offered.

"I already have too much." She blushed.

"There is a black and white," he said.

"No, you're only grey."

"They never even asked me. It was decided."

Another pale, cold, withdrawn year.

"Not everything's decided."

"No," she agreed.

His pale arms crushed her. "Stay with me," he said.

And she did. Long hours winded by and snow and spring, too.

Pale thin bones; tiny and fragile, and lost. And old.

"I do not want to die," words glided in the night.

The moon sighed. Pale thing arms were strong. "There are things I will never have."

"There are things that must be given."

And there was silk and warmth and moonlight.

"I am God!" he cried.

"But in the flesh of a man."

A burn was felt through her face to her breast. And she left. But she always came back, with unconnected thoughts and emotions. And he was there, paler and thinner and barely breathing. And then there was the dawn.

And in the rain she said goodbye, though she had no place to. And when she left, swollen with life and death, she told them, told him, "There are only shades of grey."