Poison or Potion?

I sat still. Hands trembling – maybe with fear, maybe with sadness. He sat beside me. Empty-eyed. Hollow. Rays of sunlight fell on my skin from the window, but the heat I felt was not from the sunlight.

Year after year, I became the earth under his feet. Mostly, he would be glad it’s there, but then sometimes, when the earth was a little rough naturally, he would kick it, stomp on it, destroy it with the very feet he once walked her with.

I sat there, pleading him to stay. He refused.

The air was getting heavier to breathe in – maybe just for me, or maybe for both of us. My throat felt like it was closing in on itself. Cough. “Can I have something to drink?”

“What do you want?” He asked.

“Anything that would let me breathe again. Anything that might be like your love.” I described my preferred drink.

“So… poison?” He asked.

He said ‘poison’ but I heard ‘potion’. “Yes, please,” said I.

Drink. Gulp. My head spins.

He smiled. So did I. I was dying to see him smile. It’s the smile I would kill for.

If love is poison, I’d drink it like a potion. Always. Unless, of course, I’m no more.