Pilate washed his hands of it. The basin clouded over with the murky orange of guilt, the blood red of remorse and rust of responsibility. A lot of water passed under that bridge. Rivers that flowed from the streams where artists cleaned their brushes off blame, where actors washed their faces painted over with masks, where promises sank to the bed like coloured stones. One among a million. A citadel of lost dreams covered in seamoss and green decay. Pouring blood and veins broken in vain.
We could smell the acrid sunset long before we saw it. I smiled with glass eyes. Her hands clenched into a fist. Downcast eyes vs. tears spent in secret. Bad bargains, weighed losses and raw deals. The evening turned the truth kinder. Tomorrow would come nevertheless, and with it would come regret. Paths were traced, signs were erased. Histories were rewritten. Denial couldn't have been more beautiful. Inconvenience minded its manners, and left quietly through the backdoor. Pink flowers wilted among the weeds. It was wrong. The sea roared its protest, it refused to be forgotten. And yet, we pretended we were in the realm of a parallel universe. We washed our hands of it.
There had been dreams. Of houses. Of chairs and dining tables. Of mountains and puddles. Children and jokes. I thought. You thought. He thought. She thought. We all thought. They thought. Different things, unfortunately. The same start but a different finish each. Another place, another plan. The trees watched grimly, the mud ate greedily, time turned its face away. We came clean. Such lies. The rooster cried for the third time. I know thee not. Memories were buried alive in unmarked graves. The sun washed its hands of it.
She stood there singing, clutching her heart desperately in her left hand. People danced on the trails of blood. smudging it all over the floor. Invisible stains painted a vivid picture of her agony. They ignored her bleeding heart and kept dancing. The hem of the bride's gown turned a grimy shade of red. The white lace was stained for life. The colour of ache. 30 pieces of silver glinted wickedly. People washed their hands of it. And it dragged on over black puddles of lies, spilt mistakes and lumps of pretense. One, two, three, skip. No one was the worse off for it, except, perhaps the white lace, which would never be the same again.
Love was portioned into four quarters. Sweet. Bitter. Ache. Ecstasy. Someone was going to get what was coming to them.
I sank my teeth into it. Spat it out. It was rotten. I washed my hands of it.