The snow-flakes fell upon dying grass, landing elegantly and gracefully.
Flowers lay wilted at the foot of the small, gray plaque. Curling up and wilting upon themselves.
Eyes the color of spring narrowed, gaze falling upon the snow-covered earth.
Never would a rare smile lift those intricate facial features, with indentations from dimples appearing on either side of that pale, gray face.
She was EVERYTHING.
The air that entered and exited his lungs was once the air that she exhaled when she spoke.
The water he drank had once touched her fragile lips.
The sunlight that darkened his skin over the long periods of time had once been the sunlight that had danced upon her flesh, though ceased to color it differently.
She was the glow the moon radiated was the glow that she thrived in. The enigmatic glow that fed her, and kept her filled with good health, long after her quiet demise.
When a flower dies, who cries for it?
When a bird dies, who will be able to recognize that its voice has disappeared from the musical chorus of morning songs?
He bent down, lifting the atrophying flower, and twirling its stem.
He kissed its petals, a tear falling.
A wave of song filled the air, bringing the wind along on its journey. One voice was missing.
She was a bird.
She was a flower.
She was EVERYTHING.
Pain filled eyes narrow into saddened slits, low, depressed whimpers escaping the lips.
When your lover's journey ends, it's always hard to keep going.
Dillusions….pictures….rare smiles…flower….bird…EVERYTHING.
She said she would stay.
Just one more day.
They would find a miraculous way.
He wouldn't take her away…
From him.
But grimly…
Eyes shut, cutting off all light.
All laughter froze into frames of the past.
Gone.
Gone.
GONE.
Hands open, and reach for her.
Hands close, filled with a vacuum of nothingness.
Head lowers.
Love MAKES you do crazy things.
Like believe in things that were NEVER really there.
Sometimes, he can turn over in bed…
And still see her sleep soundly, stray hairs falling into that pale face.
When that face was rotted to the point that it is a mere SKELETON of what it used to be.
At the same time.
Sometimes, he can feel her when he kisses her….
When those lips have disintegrated into waste.
He can hold that body….and feel the warmth that radiates from it…
When that body is cold, and lying 6 feet under, inhaling and exhaling dead, dormant breaths of earth.
Long after the show is over…
The charade continues.
The rose, dead and withered, re-blooms on the spot.
The charade continues.
He grows old, his hair graying until it reaches the point that streaks are white.
The charade continues.
She never seemed to age. Her body held the same touch and feel. Her rare smiles fed him, and kept him alive.
The charade continues.
When, oh when, will he wake up..
The white walls close in..
The doctors latch the jacket securely..
He can no longer move the limbs. Trapped in ropish sleeves. Paranoia setting in.
Screaming that name..
The snow stops falling.
The charade continues.
The show MAY be over…..but the charade continues.