the never was

I lay motionless on my bed, my temple pressed against the window. The glow of the city and the conciliatory light of dusk tempt Nyx to reveal herself. And all of a sudden I find myself saturated in the darkness of the bedroom, my five senses under a spell. 

The corners of my satin sheets are untouched, still tucked immaculately into the bottom of the firm mattress, taut and pressed like a new soldier’s uniform. I hear, no, feel, the rain outside, barely a few inches away, only a panel of glass sheltering my face from its fury. Yet I feel safe in my sanctum, my eden in the cataclysm of the night.

I forget how many beats of my heart pass before I notice a solitary, almost feeble star hanging against the pale colorless sky, a ship plotting its farewell course; and in my heart I feel the aches of an illusory love that never was. I mourn for romance that could’ve been and for lovers lost even before they are found.

There is a lump in my throat, and the moon slowly rises beyond the clouds in tandem with the sobs I desperately try to stifle. The winds start their journey across the hemisphere, mocking me as I despair for the never was.