While We Were Walking on Air

The wind rustled in the tall grass, tickling the feet of the two girls. One was sitting, smiling, counting, pulling petals off of wild flowers and making wishes on dandelions. The other was standing, looking down on the mane of blond hair, drifting lazily in the still summer. Words ambled through the thick air. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. Over and over, driving her to come over and take the half-beheaded flower and crush it in her tiny, silky fist.

You're killing it. Why do you kill the flowers? she asked, green eyes wide and with a hint of innocence hidden from view of those with sharp words. She could almost feel the flower's wail as it's beauty was stripped away for a silly girl's obsession. The blond just smiled, picked another, and continued her chant until it was haunting, echoing. Vibrating.

Vibrating against the glass interior of it. A vase, sitting on a stone, somewhere far away from the two. It's edges cracked and it's shimmering colors scratched away by the pain of all the broken flowers. Stems gnarled and twisted, petals brown like the leaves in fall. Sick. All of them, sick and dying while little girls and boys stepped on them and pulled them out by their roots and plucked their petals for flowers soups and crushes.

He loves me, he loves me not.

While We Were Still There

The tide pulled at the sand, sucked on the ground, tried to swallow anyone who came too close. She buried her feet in it, watching her toes disappear and reappear with the lapping waves. Songs played in her head; whether they were happy or sad, she couldn't tell. Her eyes were dull with the sound of yelling and dying and blood, if blood could have a sound. I know you, he said, and she turned and she knew.

She knew he was there and she knew who he was because he was the sound of blood and no one could ever replace the sound of blood, no matter how black it got, or how white it got or how purely red, like the inside of someone. Like the life of someone loved. Because it was the inside and the love. But he wasn't. His eyes were too black and too lifeless.

And he held out his hand and she took it so he pulled her away like the stars did the dreamers. Her shoes and his were left on the beach to be carried away while they frowned in unison. Always together, but never happy. They ate in silence and tasted only the bitter taste of defeat.

The sweet smell of victory had long since gone.

While I Still Wished For You

The color of his eyes were always so blinding. So blue so true. True blue eyes. She couldn't stand them. She could before. She used to love those eyes. But now they were too perfect and she was too wrong. Her fingernails, once clean and pretty, were cracked and chewed to nubs and cracked again. Her lips were no longer soft, like his, they were hard and chapped and bloody. Her head was so numb, she couldn't even speak like he did.

Promise him the things he needed.

But he could never have because she was too fragile and pale and pink and blue and all of the other colors that made the rainbow look like a rainbow. She wanted to take them and put them in a container and sit them on her windowsill, but never look at them because then the memory of them would all come flooding back and chew her until she was short and cracked like her fingers that had been beautiful.

She wished she had been beautiful.

While We Laughed

She loved him.

He loved her.

While We Cried

It didn't last.