Bedelia sat by the window where the slipping sun shot through her prism, splashing rainbows on walls and ceiling, and mused softly: “which is eternal—love, or the heartache it holds?”
She held the Victorian watch, fingered the sterling scrollwork which resembled ocean waves, and thought of him…
He’d seen her sitting in the dark, the whispering palms and surf behind her, moon glow lighting silent silver streams that slid down her cheeks.
“What is it, Love—tell me,” he’d spoken tenderly, his matinee idol face in shadow…
Etched like scrimshaw on eternal heart, forever ago…was it true memory, or merely recurrent dream?
Closing her eyes she could feel his hand, warm and smooth against her cheek…real as fading prism rainbows.
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.