sad · words

Beauty is harsh.

He lay there, ashen white and calm. Unblinking.
He didn’t say anything but she could hear words whispered huskily, from another time.
That silken dark hair.
Had someone had run their slim fingers through it, the strands caressing the sensitive tips of the delicate woman’s hands or had he ruffled it when he had been agitated?

His flat forehead had once leaned on another, those eyes hidden behind lashes that fanned his sharply sculpted cheek bones, gazed into someone’s.
Were they blue? Green? Cutting silver grey- matching his harsh features or were they golden? Mossy green? Brown?
Had they flared and darkened when he had deeply felt about something, or remained cold and glassy? unforgiving.
How much had the black pinholes in his eyes stretched when he had gazed at or into someone else’s, when sparring by words or when he had been overwhelmed by desire?

That ruthlessly sharp and once or more broken nose.
Had it flared when he had been angry? Turned red when he had had a cold? Had someone nursed it when it had been broken? or had he done so himself, alone in his confines hating the attention or humiliation?
His lips.
They weren’t pink anymore or had that raspberry redness but were now graced by a paleness that lied about the warmth they had once had.
They were a cupids bow shaped, the bottom still tempting for a nibble even in its still pale form. Had they softly touched a woman’s delicate sensitive ones, or had they taken? Firm and sure of what both parties had wanted.
He had had a short growth of beard to that last time.
How many had felt the tingling spikes on their cheeks and enjoyed it? Had he basked in in the simple pleasure of his laziness or meticulously grown facial hair, at the time; enticing others? Where had those whiskers caressed?
He had a thick neck, that of a fighter.
Wide shoulders that may have carried more weight than most would have been aware of.
That scar on the right shoulder long and vicious. What had caused it, the pink healed flesh showed the man wore it with pride even when he wasn’t aware of it as he lay there.
That wide chest, flat and unmoving, but some golden hue still showed. How strong had it looked with lungs breathing life in and out? Had a woman lain her head there after they had made love and rested her hand of that strong chest with his heart beating fast and wildly as hers had?
His torso, still sculpted.
From hard work he did outdoors? Had that beauty been hidden from prying eyes as he worked even when it got too hot, or had he graced the eager eyes of tittering women with its glistening sinew?
His narrow hips didn’t flex anymore.
Flat and strong. Had he let a daring woman touch the top of his fitting trousers or had he guided her hands there, cajoling, whispering enticing words?
Such strong legs.
Sure and thickly adorned. The trousers clung to them as if pleading he never leave them, promising to serve, to preserve his nakedness even in his still form. Had he walked in a confident gait, sure and stood with his legs parted with his strong hands crossed around his chest? Did they had have a short black hairs on them. Had he danced and enjoyed how strong and distracting one had been when he had put it between a woman’s while he guided her on the floor?
His face had such courage, his wide body relaxed but she wondered, had he accepted his end with calm or had he fought until his last breath had left him.


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