Hierdie is die LitNet-argief (2006–2012)
This is the LitNet archive (2006–2012)
Tez Colloty - 2011-09-15
It didn’t feel right. Having the black silk pulled over my head and feeling it coldly clinging to my skin. I inhaled a shaky breath as I adjusted the net over my face. I glanced at your candle, still as bright as the day I lit it.
They’re lying to me. It’s not true. I know it isn’t. I slip the gloves on and put on the diamond ring you gave me the day you vowed your eternal commitment and love to me. I glance in the mirror a final time before I head down the twirling staircase. He opens the door as he has done for years, but it still feels wrong.
It should be silent. But the horses stomp their feet against the cobblestone as the sun lingers on them, etching the illusion into the oily black of their coats. They say we’ll reach the graveyard soon. They say you will be there already.
They’re lying to me. Because you’re sitting next to me with that secret smile that made me stay. Even the wildest of gypsies need a place to keep their heart. Even if it means exchanging the heaviness of a free soul for the weightless bliss of a Spanish count’s tender touch.
They’re leading me to your grave, so they say. But they must be crazy. Here you are beside me, slipping your hand into mine. Their faces are stained with tears; their lips parting as they breathe silent prayers; their hands moving in our sacred gesture. Shoulder. Shoulder. Head. Heart. Lips.
You and I stand watching them lower a coffin, your fingertips trail down my neck and trace the line of where my skin and the lace meet. You whisper in my neck. Those soft, sweet Spanish words. “Querida,” lovingly breathes over your lips, “forever am I yours.” Then you take my hand and lead me away.
They say you’re gone. But you take my hand and dance with me.