Beneath the Dark
By April French

He lies in state on a couch, far below the city streets, safe and warm in the dark. He wishes for sleep, for a little peace. But there will be no peace for him tonight, for beneath the dark, the faces cry out again.

He sees them not, but they are there, nonetheless. He hears them.

He hears her.

He knew her face, once, though he cannot remember it now. Her voice strikes chords that make him burn. He reaches for her, and finds only himself.

He throws back his head, straining to see her. His hands are her hands, his groans of longing are her sighs of home.

He comes, she comes. They all come in the dark. The dark draws them together and shatters them apart, leaving nothing but sticky hands and the sound of one man's breathing.

He loved her once, he is certain. But her face is buried beneath the dark.

Just as he is.

So are they all.

~Finis--January 14th, 2007~