Stigma

It holds her attention, 
the rust stained crooks,
almost a blood caked cross upon her fingers.
"You don't know," 
she whispers, 
salty drops of grief that won't fall 
filling her eyes.
No... no... I don't know,
but only because you've never
let me in.
His newly freed eyes
trace the pattern of her stigma,
small laceration of skin self torn
as he wonders,
idle thoughts of why and selfish culpability
guiltily obfuscating any reasonable theory.
Whisper of his name,
and again, 
"You don't know,"
and he can only shake his head.
A moment in time that he feels
the world is being hewn away from him,
strange sensation of simultaneous
vertigo and rigidity.
And he stares at the scab on her fingers,
the blur of everything else surrounding,
funneling his vision as it falls in circles
and now, maybe, he knows - 
at least, a little.