I collect my tears in a jar. When I think of you I shed my attachment through drops of longing on my cheek. When the jar fills I’m going to take the tears to your grave and water the flowers I left there. Maybe they can keep them from dying.
He let his gaze fall upon her flower petaled face, so soft it begged caress, trying to will an exchange. She rarely noticed him, his breathless yearning for moments. “Impossibilities bear beauty for the ache of never,” he thought. Life flashes as her smile dawns in merciless recognition. “Never.”
He lost himself in curls; the little ringlets placed there by a metal rod blissfully unaware it helped her kill a man. Did it feel guilty? She had always been dangerous, he knew that. Now? She was armed. Soft, sweet scent. Poisonous. Kissing Sweet Pea meant dying. So he did.
“Would you die?”
“What kind of question…?”
“Love isn’t quantifiable.”
“Be normal. Just once?”
“Why’d I have to die? This isn’t Thunderdome.”
“Forget?! TWO men enter. ONE man leaves.”
Next to you. So far away from you; forever without you. Moments of marble cruelly on the cusp of all that should not and must be. Silent cries for glances, chances, and touch hollow the man of dead seasons, his husk barren. Will you not pour your porcelain into him?
Leaning in, she lays her aura against his, letting his heat chill her spine. Her soft breath brushes eternity over his lips. Skin plays pretend. They thieve these moments, mislaying their hearts. The mundane grinds forward as the moment expires, his breath catching him wondering how long he’d been dead.