--.--.--.--.--.--. . .a funeral for the flowers. . .--.--.--.--.--.--
How is it possible for something so desirable and romantic in your mind to be so dreadfully depressing in reality
How is it possible for something so desirable and romantic in your mind to be so dreadfully depressing in reality? How can a pain so strong be only felt by one being and not all others? How can one person contain all of it by oneself? How can they have changed so much practically beyond recognition yet be exactly the same as before, years in the past? They can't.
She sat on the aged swing for two made of a deceased tree and frayed rope. Her black prom dress, strapless and simple to her knees stuck against the damp wood. Her fingers, independent of a conscience, lost themselves in the many layered pearl necklaces. The other hand wrapped itself around the rough rope and constricted tightly on it in need of some sort of release. A faint breeze scattered the pale tresses that were just feathering to her shoulders.
The grass crunched in a whisper under new shoes as they approached the occupied swing. Overlooking the school from a blanket of flowers, they were. The field, fading but still virgin of any construction or disturbances. The arriver in a black suit and naked black tie sat on the empty side of the swing. His eyes cloaked by the thick bangs that were cut like a curtain to his nose solemnly watched the fragile white flowers bend back as his shoes slid over them.
With a single release of breath, understanding impossible to be expressed through all the words and writing in the world was untied from her soul, her core. It pulled with it her fraudulent strength and illogical optimism. The rope no longer quieting her need for support, she rested her head on the ironed shoulder of his suit. He silently revealed his understanding and feelings that painted a mirror of her own and rested his delicately pale cheek upon her soft hair.
His hand, supporting him inches away from his thigh on the aged plank magnetized her own. Her hand pressed down on his, curling their fingers together over the edge. Faint melodies from the prom set up in the gym down the hill were hushed in the breeze.
She didn't want to leave, he didn't want her anywhere but by his side. As she hooked her black heel between his dress shoes, they both felt their end. It carried a wrenching pain that was identical to that of a funeral.
For every flower amongst them, there was a kiss, a tear, a story, a fluttering heart beat, a hug, a memory, a laugh, a date, a movie, a second of happiness, a promise of forever. A forever that would be chained behind and eventually buried. A forever they only had eyes for, dreams of. A forever that time seemed to be ripping from them.
But for every leaf on the flowers, there would be a letter, a phone call, a day dream, a weekend reunion, an obstacle, a distraction, a test of their devotion. And for every tangling root, there would be a thought, another kiss, another smile, another laugh, and another year together.
Until forever, for only the petals of a single flower could count the years of their separation. They then would be together until the end of forever.
Until forever.
--.--.--.--.--.--. . .a funeral for the flowers. . .--.--.--.--.--.--
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happy unbirthday
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--frumpyrox