Wednesday, 16 May 2012

'A Satin Wake' by Ron Runeborg

She was stunning, my Roseanne; a slight girl, barely reaching to my waist yet her powerfully feminine presence made her true stature immeasurable. Her hair was sculpted, layered black on black, perfectly formed as if the feathers atop a raven's wing. Into her eyes one could fall for an eternity, those bottomless wells of midnight blue now covered by lids heavy with the weight of the netherworld. She'd the nose of a little girl, slightly freckled, a tiny upturn, proportionate in the style of Michelangelo. Roseanne had the upper lip of a prayer; an odd analogy perhaps unless you can visualize the words earnest, passionate, joyous and well loved. She smiled even as her face lay in stasis; she was happy, always, even unto her death. Her lower lip was pouting, sensual, serious... 

I kissed my first two fingers and then reached into her satin lined coffin and set them on that lip; the lip I'd touch while drawing her face close to mine back when we were young and in lust. "Goodbye darlin" I muttered. "See you when I get there. It shouldn't be long."

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