Defeat.

'I am sorry' - she whispers... Extending a pallid corpse-like hand.Bone white fingers seeking, to grasp him.In supplication, to stroke his satiny skin.Perhaps to tousle an ebony curl or two.'I am sorry,' - she repeats.'I have failed you.'

He ignores her as if she were a ghost.She looks like one.A ghost of her former glory.A mockery of that bubbling fount of youth he remembers.He desired her then, both he and she know that.Desired her when she was vibrant, golden-haired.Plump with the jucies of living.

'I am sorry' - she tries again.Her fingers almost manage to bestow their tender caress.But he shies away, flinches from her as if she were Death herself.He does not want her apology.Does not care - it is too late.She failed, failed, failed...

She is beautiful no longer.Beautiful she is, but not to him.He does not see the beauty in her mournful eyes.Those sorrowing windows of earthy brown.Nor does he see it in her feathery tresses.Soft and light as thistledown, a dark chocolate brown.All that is not gold does not glitter for him.Nor is her pallid skin enough to entice.It is the epidermis of a wilted flower.Or a phantom.No pulse can he detect there, nor does he see.The frantic beating of her heart.Like a caged bird trying to flee its cage.And fly to him on silken wings of shadow.

'I am sorry' - she tries one last time.But he is already gone.His back is turned and he strides towards a distant light.The gleam of an opened door waiting to admit him.And swing shut on her gaunt white face.She sighs, sorrows, sobs.Crumples to her scarred white knees.And bows her head - she admits defeat