the shepherd's sword

she

she.

she had blonde, bouncy hair that flew like a golden cape from her scalp and framed her rosy face. she tugged at it while biting her bottom lip when she wanted him to do something.

she wore pink lipstick and black mascara, and she knew exactly how to use them. she plucked them from her bathroom counter with her manicured fingertips and suddenly they became two halves of ex calibur, and wielding them, she became invincible, and terrifying, and all the while looking like a perfect doll.

she left her pink lipstick on his coffee mugs every morning, and she didn't care. she liked it. she was marking her territory.

she walked with all the grace in the world, and she had a biting wit. she possessed eyes pale like the stormy sea, and she could freeze them solid and bore them jagged into any soul when she wished. she was a formidable force.

she liked jazz music and that was it. she always had control of the car radio. she set all of his channels to jazz, and she didn't care that he liked classic rock.

she loved to touch him, and she knew exactly how to do it. she melted him and made him malleable, and she forged him into what she wished, and all the while she smiled with her perfect smile.

she left.

she left on a rainy afternoon like the hurricane she was and she was gone in the blink of an eye while he cried on the couch. she left him with a million tiny things that she didn't care to pack and she never looked back. she didn't explain why.

she is now only a lipstick-stained coffee mug in the sink, an old hairdryer, four bottles of nail polish, a worn copy of war and peace, nineteen gel pens, and a hundred tainted memories, and little more. she is the pain in his chest and the lump in his throat but she is no longer the humming in the living room nor the laughter in the swing.

she is gone and he cries.