Cleopatra’s Shoes

Cleopatra’s shoes are by the door,
Still shiny, barely worn.
Mark’s sitting there, his hoodie torn,
His pride completely shorn.

The jars of purée, forgotten now,
Are crusted, stale, and grim.
“I’ll fix this,” he says, his voice a crack,
Though hope is wearing thin.

Gaius had come with fire and spite,
His words a blade, his hands a fist.
“Cleo’s mine,” he spat with venom bright,
But love’s not claimed like this.

“You think I’m cruel,” Gaius seethed, “but no—
you left my sister there to bleed“,
Their fight goes far beyond the show;
Octavia’s tears still call Mark’s name in need.

Mark tried to shield her, bore the brunt,
A punch, a shove, a fall.
And when it ended, Gaius left,
The victor in that brawl.

Now Cleopatra ties her laces tight,
Her shoes a perfect fit.
She looks at Mark, his face still pale,
And softly says, “That’s it.”

“We’re done with him,” her words are firm,
“No more of Gaius’s game.”
Mark meets her gaze, his pulse runs quick,
She says, “It’s not the same.”

She offers her hand; he takes it slow,
The bruises start to fade.
They move to hers,
A choice that they’ve both made.

But fate, as cruel as love is kind,
Had written them apart.
A reckless drive, a flash of light—
An end to beating hearts.

Cleopatra’s shoes sit by the road,
One lying on its side.
A shattered pair, a silent void,
Where fire and love once tried.