My First Tragedy

During the early morning quiet and blackness, two young lovers lay inside on a sofa in full embrace. Tears zipped down her face in the blackness. The boy, a novice to love, tried to hold his own tears back. It was a symbolic end, a last night together. The two would see each other again, but never under the same pretense, never as lovers. His hands caressed her back and she squeezed him close to her body.
It was time.
Together the pair reluctantly walked to the door. The door represented death: a departure from a naïve romance, which would become a memory hollow with the shadows of their childish love. A memory that would cloak the boy’s childhood home, only to leave a complicated taste in his mouth every time he visited years later, as if he was refugee returning to a land that was taken from him. The right word for this feeling only appears in the Russian language: TOCKA.

Under moonlight trellis the lovers made their last embrace. She turned her tear soaked face and walked off into the darkness. My first tragedy.