Too much, to many things to much too much.
The tears mix with the roses, almost like I'm watering my own pain. It never makes it to the blood stained note in my hands, as I read it over and over, tying to look for something in the letter that I can't find. I cough, and more bloom. More pain blooms in my chest, and I finally stop reading and let my arm drop. There's nothing left to read, there wasn't much to read in the first place.
Everything was put together and precise, much like the one who was writing. I can see the hands clearly dancing over the page with that beautiful handwriting Ive always admired. I can see their eyes, crinkled with concentration....oh how cute I found that. But their expression is on I can't place, it's blurred with a static, blurred like my vision when I come back to reality.
I am on the floor. I barely register the pain of my knees, because it all seems to flow through my chest. My heart beats with grief, grief I can yet cannot process.
Theres no way they're gone. No, they were just here yesterday, we just had a photo shoot. She was in that baby blue dress, amongst a hill of roses, a little baby breathe in her hair. She was just here, smiling that priceless smile that makes the world light up, makes *my life* light up. She was just here she was just here-
Waking up days later, surrounded by bottles of wine the color of the bloodied roses mingled with them. I just stared, and stared, but in this sudden moment of clarity, I knew what I could do.
One final masterpiece.
I gathered more roses, as I coughed I worked, I never had to move much, but its not like I had the energy. The sun's lights danced around me, changing hue ever so slightly as I worked, mingling with the art piece itself. The more I worked, the more light I felt, as my feet dragged along the floor. The piece seemed to glow the more I put into it, my chest burning with every touch. Finally, I finished, and grabbed my camera, feeling as if I could skip and run over to it. I took the perfect picture, and the world faded out with the falling sun. I went down with it, a content smile on my face.
He walks in with his spare key, he gasps in horror at the image of his best friend on the ground, in the middle of a crimson-stained mirage of baby blue flowers, in a poorly shaped, distorted moon, in front of a burry mess of yellow. And in the middle, lyes the creator, amongst his creation, that content smile still burning on his face. And that camera? Nearly tripped over it as he walked closer in horror at the scene.
He can't bare to witness another eclipse again, and his mourning friends can never understand why.
