Red Tells A Story

absence does not make
his heart grow fonder.
it just gives him space to
breathe in crisp air, alone.
he smiles to think that she's
really gone,
not recognizing the empty space
where she was
as anything to rue or regret,
but as something to celebrate.

he tells himself he'll sleep
soundly, deep
under this round, pale moon,
between cool, smooth sheets.
and if she ventures into his dreams
he'll lock the doors, swear on
the heads of loved ones
that she's not welcome,
not caring if those words
cut her in half,
hoping they destroy her.

in the morning, with dawn still
a thousand breaths away,
he'll congratulate himself
on his strength,
on his ability to stand firm,
and the unbroken space beside him
will only silently accuse him
until he turns his head and makes his
eyes blind.  he will tell himself that
this empty bed
is what he's always wanted,
not noticing that his hands are clenched,
the fingers clawing red into the palms
and leaving half-moon circles of blood.