They are a sweet medley of seasons, a twisted wiry tangle of blades of grass, the green and the brown mixing in a way not entirely pleasant to the eyes.
They are a river that flows waves of regret and happy rashness, a trace of water in a desert. They are not perfect, they are not ill matched. They are not one yet one is nothing amongst so much. They are the rocks that can not roll on the tickling grains of sand the beach boasts of, yet they are the blended rays of sunshine and wisps of cold wind.
He mutters this strange poetry throuout the day, hands suddenly misplaced everywhere without her skin to beg his caresses.
He mutters this poetry as he gapes imploringly at the empty seat opposite him, a trill of red velvet flaring outward like snapping violin strings.
He mutters this poetry as he roams around the silent house, which takes it's lifeless seat among the weeds and decay - without the grace of her tidying hands, and her sweet songs of hysteria as she jumps around away from his ticling fingers.
He mutters this poetry as he bends down to place his hands among the stone as an encapsulation of flesh over the dead, cold wealth of the earth.
"How surreal..." He laughs a hollow resonant sound that lingers in the graveyard moments later. He runs a hand along the hard grey stone that barred him from all that he had ever known, his dried eyes suddenly welling up with strange droplets of a mysterious substance. Tears? Who had known that the dew of compassion could fall to the earth with such a harsh patter that his ears couldn't recognize after years of unbinded HAPPINESS.
"How cold you are, and how you will never leave." His words drift into the whispers from the leaves, the swishing dance of the flowers perched high in trees.
To break the lonely dance of a graveyard is to feel the stangest emergence of consciousness.
Bone dry. Always hidden, beneath brown and green. Empty, -
At naught.
To think, this was one who he had hugged at night, and kissed in the morning.
A/N: I love writing such amazingly dramtic cliches. It's simply because when I read real literature, of which this is a feeble attempt at imitation, if not duplication, then I can believe that the love the Bronte' sisters, etcetera, preach of is so captured, yet completely fictional. One part of me thinks, this kind of love doesn't exist, and the other part feels the realness of the words - the feelings and emotions a true literary can induce. Essentially, that is what literature does.
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