The Guillotine

So… here I am. Damp wood at my neck. Staring into the rusty brown basket that my head will wobble in once the blade has severed it. To my left, a lined box into which my decapitated body will soon be unceremoniously flipped after all those words fall. I can hear them on the blade, muttering incoherent bits of fabrications and false anger. They’re priming their conjured ire for the drop and the chop. Steady eyes at the space just below the base of my skull. Waiting for the elevation to courage that’s necessary to slice that innocent love from the course of its realization.

It’s 9am.

A trickle of water bleeds from a leaky spigot on the wall to my right. It courses through street mortar and bulges toward me.

The voices grow louder.

The soldiering streak catches a glimmer of sunlight, and speeds through the puzzle in the road.

I glance as far as I can toward the tetragon shear. The words are moving faster there. Concentrating on the edge as they prepare for the click and the drop. A figure to my left extends a hand from the folds of her midnight cloak. I notice her glittering lavender nail polish is chipped along each unattended ridge. I catch a hint of jasmine on the breeze. Just beneath the brim of her hood, a crooked smirk curling up the left side of her face. She glances at the blade, clutching the lever with uncharacteristic strength and purpose. I thought of those hands touching me in dire moments. How they looked curious, and clumsily graceful. Strange to see them like this now. Disjointed, and lacking any semblance of affection.

On my right, the water rages toward me now. Bursting from the mortar and onto the surface of the blackened cobblestones, flooding the edges like great waves crashing on cliffs.

I watch the fingers on the hand flex, and the twitch of an arm. A shink, and words are sent plummeting toward my love. They ride the rail, bent on one final disconnection. Screaming down that fake wave of promises and sentiments.

The torrent of water lurches up into a massive blanket of transparent cloth, catching every beam of light unhindered by the protruding guillotine and its operator. A gasp. A pause. A thought.

I’m not confused, though I would like to have seen the sky one last time.