Unmatched

His only hope, his one true desire, to see himself as her beacon,

An instrument that would see her return from the dark path she had consciously chosen, with foresight, with knowledge. 

Seeing himself as saviour, knowingly assigning himself to a task at which he was doomed to fail, he mistook his own vanity, for love.

He saw her as weak, broken, a victim of unfulfilled promises and an all too bleeding heart.

That she enjoyed this world, that it was the only place where feeling could reach her, never entered his mind.

The power struggle that ensued would prove his undoing.

His own saviour would not let him reach anything more than a few pale, slender fingers into the abyss. It was a world where only his fears could surface. Where fact and statistic, the church he worshipped, failed to exist.

She saw those fingers, frail and reaching, but to grip would be an offence. In her realm of pain and suffering, of beauty and song, of love and hate, the numbers would never match. Her darkness was dreams, her world was poetry, his grasp...a failed sonnet that would never speak of love.

Natasha Head

2013