She was so far lost in the darkness that it seemed she had forgotten how to see the light. I thought the warmth from my hand, gripping hers, would radiate powerfully enough to make us both glow on that stage of shadows. I was wrong.
I had hoped my kisses would engage her, my embraces the energy she needed to propel herself forward into the cold world. I thought I could act as a furnace as she slipped into my arms each night, shielding her from the ice and frost. If I could only...if I could just pulsate warmth and sun when we had no sun left...
Now I stand on that stage alone. The silhouettes dance around me, too. They pull at my clothes. They snicker at my dry eyes.
She kissed cold steel six months ago. The touch of those metal lips lasted longer to her than my own lips did on my skin. Permanence in cold. Even when the heat burst from the barrel...well, she didn't feel it then, either.
Draw the curtain on this performance, please. It's not worth viewing. Here I am, no encore, in front of an audience I cannot see. The light that encircles me is harsh, not inviting. It burns me, instead of caressing my body. I look up, and there is nothing but white. White as winter. White as chill.
Then the spotlight disappears. And I am lost in the darkness.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Menist.