Two Eyes Cenote i'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired

Her arms wished to hold, eclipsed by the beauty of his words– by the beauty of him and the desire to be someone’s, if not her bud’s. Her spirit felt deceived by the warring mind; the discordant tune of her longing. But never could she idly watch as Meseba’s love atrophied for a woman whose heart had gone rigid; whose eyes turned elsewhere.

“Please–” it is a true pain which beseeches in her cry,  “please, do not bind yourself to me, Meseba. I cannot make you happy.” Not in the way his lionheart merited, nor in the deepest, untold nexus between wife and husband.

“It is what you deserve, a beautiful, full life– it is what I want for you. Please understand, it is what I cannot give.” A sinking chill on her brow, a chest severed in fatal ways. He did not ask this of her, and still she refused to see him surrender those most precious experiences. Her clasping arm holds fast as she hears the tremor in his voice.

“Please do not forsake your love,” her voice is aching, almost too low, the amber wavering in sickness with all she could not be for so deserving of a man.