Was She Condemned That Day?

Fingers brushed whites, coral pinks
Passionate gifts of lime, hibiscus,
Driving their favors into the air,
Leaving traces on dappled skin.

Lit from above, she walked
Through bursting corridors,
Of shadows, and echoing
Laughter. Or was it mockery?

There, in a clearing, she saw
A trio, conspirators, full of wine,
Throwing heads back, roaring,
Over some prurient tale.

She didn't get the joke, until
One of them waved his hand,
And then pain stabbed abdomen.
She was the punchline, she saw.

That subtle gesture, familiar,
Revealed the angle of his mind.
Was she condemned that day?
Was she wounded by knowing?

Truth, unearthed, tagged him
As a false sort of friend,
One who, once out of sight,
Derides, destroys, delights.

Yet instead, she realized then,
Of catastrophic, knowing
Set her free, released her
From passion's rough grasp.

No longer clinging to
Dreams of nights together,
She could walk on now,
Strong, secure, serene.

And then he spotted her.
He ceased laughing, face
Falling, ashen. As she looked
At this cold image, she knew.

She knew from his eyes, then
That he did not despise her,
But, like brats pulling hair,
Had quite opposite feelings.

As the sun dipped lower,
Warming and shadowing,
They knew without risk,
Love cannot root nor flower.