Battlefield

Evan Chen

The battlefield was quiet,

not with peace,

but with the hush of things too broken to speak,

 

She lay where the grass still lived,

beneath a sky cracking like an open wound,

her armor split, her breath a fading thread,

her hair once braided like a promise, now tangled with blood and dust

 

“You’re late,” she whimpered as her soft gaze met mine,

the wind pulling what was left of us.

the smile that followed was stitched with pain and defiance

 

The sun behind her spilled red;

not golden, not warm,

but the red of endings,

the red of goodbye

 

I wanted to hold it in place.

Stop the bleeding sky,

Stop her from fading.

 

“You were supposed to run,”

I accused her.

“I did,” She smiled gently. “Just the wrong way.”

 

I lived on after the war.

only if you count living as a Yin without a Yang,

as a man without a soul,

as a universe without its stars,

as me without her.