It's Still Life

11 of 27: Drowndusk Liturgy

Love Buried Beneath Duty

I. The Vow
Drowndusk does not begin at the altar—
it begins at the sink,
where two pairs of hands
wash the same dish
and never brush,
where “I do” turns slowly
into “I will.”
“I must.”

The chains are forged of good intentions,
each link a promise:
to stay, to care, sacrifice—
until the metal grows warm
with the heat of love
that forgot how to burn.

(The way coffee
goes cold
before the first sip.)

II. The Ritual
You will mark its passage:
the laundry folded with sharp corners,
the calendar’s neat squares
where anniversary shares the date
with dentist appointments,
the way you still ask “how was your day?”
though the answer is already known.

Drowndusk smells of starch and soft perfume,
of lullabies hummed absentmindedly,
of the click of a pen
writing grocery lists
instead of love letters.

(This is not cruelty.
This is consequence—
of should … over want.)

III. The Dream
Sometimes, in the blue hour before dawn,
it flickers—
a memory of skin unchained,
of laughter that didn’t double
as a ledger,
of a time when yours and mine
had no hyphen.

But the alarm always sounds,
the ritual of socks paired,
of pills counted,
of a kiss placed
like a stamp
on an envelope.

(The heart learns to fold itself
smaller, smaller, smaller)

IV. The Unmaking
Drowndusk does not shatter.
It settles—
like sugar at the bottom of a cup.

There is no fight.
No slammed door.
Only the quietness
of two people
who still share life
but no longer share the dark.

(The last touch:
an elbow’s nudge
so you don’t step in dog shit.
Neither of you flinches.)

V. Felreil’s Epilogue
He finds it in the hush of kitchens,
in the way a wedding band spins
but never slips off,
in the hollow of a couch cushion
where someone once sat
closer.

He doesn’t collect it.
He kneels beside it—
this altar of unspoken vows,
this shrine of almost and not quite—
and for the first time in centuries,
he hesitates.

Then he blows out the candle.
Not in mercy.
In homage.

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Written as a mind-map for Denise’s Six Sentence Story. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.