Her Autumn Buffet

So the man doesn't bleed. Doesn't cry.
She does. Not only can she as quick as a blink, she loves to.
The temperature change as it slides down her chest.
It's a cold, burning wet.
She feels and understands. She's free and has sight.

He is so warm inside. Compassionate and pleasant.
His face streams with sweat from his work. He smells amazing.
She could get high from inhaling him. And be in a different land.
He isn't clueless. Probably of equal or more intelligence than her.
But he has never had her sight. And never will.

She knows that's why it's okay. She knows that's why he's perfect in her mind.
Sometimes she thinks about it. And she asks a typical now and then "Why?" to herself.
But it isn't the kind of why he, or another man would think. It's a good why.

It's her "Why?". Her way of functioning. For when she asks it, she tells herself, every time...
"He keeps me alive, shows me how to love and be loved. And that is all I need.
My past serves the rest of the courses."

And she moves on. Playing out her activities of the day. As does he.
Dinner is ready.
Her heart is black, his is white, the two are inextricable.