I. The First Time
I see her
by the ruined stone wall,
a wisp of a girl,
hair tangled like brambles,
eyes too big
for her hollowed face.
She watches me
as if I am something dangerous,
or something golden.
I offer a loaf.
She does not take it.
But she does not run.
II. The Rich Boy
“My name is Henry.”
She does not ask.
I say it anyway.
She laughs,
and it is as brittle as dried wheat.
“I know.”
III. Famine
The land is dying.
So are its people.
The air smells of rotten crops
and sorrow.
But she—
she speaks of Shakespeare,
like the words are hers
to taste,
to own.
She recites sonnets
with lips cracked and pale.
She loves poetry,
but poetry does not fill
an empty belly.
IV. The Cliffs
We walk the cliffs
when the sky is thick with rain,
where no one will see.
Her hands are cold.
She hides them in her shawl,
a patchwork of tatters.
I tell her of London,
of books with spines unbroken,
of dinners where
plates are never empty.
She tells me of hunger,
of her mother’s bones,
too frail to carry water.
She asks me why.
I have no answer.
V. The Kiss
It happens on a night
when the stars are weak
and her breath is weaker.
My lips meet hers,
soft, urgent, breaking.
She tastes of rain
and dust.
She grips my coat,
holds me close,
as if she could slip
through my fingers.
VI. Hunger Takes
She does not come
to the ruined stone wall.
I run to her cottage.
She is there,
curled like a ribbon,
thin as paper,
breathing in shudders.
I call her name.
Her mother cries.
I offer food,
money,
my soul.
Nothing will save her.
VII. Gone
She dies
in a bed too small
for her greatness.
I hold her hand,
and she smiles,
as if I was never
a stranger.
VIII. After
I tell myself
it is my fault.
That I did not give enough.
That I let her love me
when she should have
hated me.
I read Shakespeare alone now,
the words slipping through my fingers,
like sand I will never hold.
I press my hand
to the cold stone of the hearth,
where her warmth once lingered,
and the absence hurts,
sharp as a wound that won’t heal.
And I wonder
if love
can ever be forgiven.