Tragic Love Story

She is my love, my life, my dove, my wife

Her smile transcends all dimensions and reaches out to me no matter the distance

Her eyes speak volumes of admiration and pierces like lasers into the deepest parts of me

Her skin against my skin writes a sonnet more exquisite than the Queen’s tableware

All the exclaimed ballads could never narrate the entirety of her story

I was blind for I never read the signs that indicated that she was hurting

I was too focused on how she made me feel and all she did for me

That’s where I failed as her lover, as her husband, as her protector

It was odd, the note she left for me in my lunch

Too final, too intense

It was strange, the house was dark when I came home from work

Too eerie, too unlike her; my love, my life, my dove, my wife

She didn’t greet me at the door with a smile and kiss

My home was not filled with the smells of her submission and adoration

As I climbed the stairs, my mind confused, my heart racing, my hands sweaty

I opened the door to our room and she was not lying there upon our marriage bed

In the silence I heard rain

Slowly I moved closer to its calming calls

There behind the curtain lay my one and only heartbeat

My love, my life, my dove, my wife

That’s when it all made sense; the note

Being a writer, I thought it was a new short-story she had been working on

It was her suicide note:

“She wakes up and kisses the love of her life goodmorning. She rises from the nightmare that she has been having for months now. While making her husband’s coffee just the way he likes it; lots of cream and even more sugar, she calls out of work for the day. She places his lunch, made the night before, with his keys and briefcase by the front door, only to be quickly swept off her feet by the man she had given her everything to. As he drank his coffee, his eyes gazing over the fresh ink of the news, she cried within. Her bones screaming out from the prison they were trapped in. With a good-bye kiss, he was off to work and she was off to making preparations. He would be home by eight. On their marriage bed, she laid and cried tears of pain and utmost turmoil followed by prayers that her knight would learn to love again. For she had failed him in more ways than one. He was a blessing she did not deserve. For months she had, had the same night terror and it finally came. All she wanted was to give me a child, but no matter what the end resulted in tears and diminishing hopes until one day a miracle happened, she conceived but remained silent. After carrying for six weeks she felt a cloud of death envelope her. Two days ago she found out she miscarried. What more was there for her to live for? The clock read 7:30. She fixed the bed, undressed, turned the faucets and surrounded herself with white porcelain. She dug deep and carved a line no clean and precise up the middle of her left arm. Her eyes blurred by tears, her limbs numb, her heart dancing a slow waltz… ‘I love you.’ And like that she whispered her last breath.”

This was her hell, not knowing that all I needed was her. Her personal prison, afraid to disappoint. She is my angel. So, today, I return her to the earth with the hopes that I will be reunited with the smile that fades out the darkness and breathes life into my lungs. My love, my life, my dove, my wife.