Never an ever after

5||| Memento Mori

And in the end

I will seek you

Out amongst

the stars.

The space dust

Of me will

whisper

"I love you"

Into the infinity

of the universe.

- David Jones

She looked at me, I remember as if it was today, and I pressed my lips together to confess the song of my heart, and soul. That I loved her and our love would be undeniable, inextricable and eternal, bound by souls, fates and hearts. "don't," she said. Did she know? You were always the impatient one to hear the confession. You were always the winner. "...say sorry. I'm too," she said, harrowing me. "Promise me, Richard." she whispered.

"Anything,"

"Promise me that you will not forget me." she ended talking, stared in to the space, stuck in somewhere of universe.

"I'd never,"

"Sure?"

"More than myself,"

She was a prideful person, vain, almost. But I admired it. She was a person who never went down without a good fight. She was still doing it. Remembering that, it depressed me. Suddenly, I couldn't believe it all. She was going. She was leaving me. I would never see her, we would never read to each other. What would be Dreiton without her? I didn't want to let go of her, but I didn't have control here. My dad had always been adamant against me and her for seemingly no reason to me. Most of all, what would I be without her?

I had no answer.

💍💍

Eroded Canyons. It said. By Annabeth Dorsier. It was not a book, but pages of a manuscript, typed by a typewriter. The second page; To my beloved, wherever you are, I just wanted to say that I love you. This is my token of love. Please accept it. He kept on reading. Her poems. As the manuscript bore in his hands, he realised this was him, re-reading it again. For the thousandth time, so familiar that he was sure that her vanilla scent was there with him, amongst the edges of the old papers. Holy verses of love.

On the fateful eve of Autumn, the age of remembrance, he, a draught that could only be quenched by the rain of an unarrived journey that is certain to come to him as well, consumed him, as well as the autumn that was made of him, and his memories. He followed his overwritten book of life's storyline provided for him, lead by a Boat tail Spitzer, penetrating across the greatest repository of life-long wisdom, which was also made of him and himself. He never got to strip his heart's lay bare emotions, to one of most but not least, affectionate persons in his book of life, and neither did she. 

"Go home, Blythe," he said when she was beside him in the hospital bed.

"But, Richie, I can't leave you right now,"

"You made a promise,"

"But-"

"No buts,"

"Then will you make me a promise?"

"It depends,"

"Will you try your best, to stay?"

"I will not make promises I cannot keep, Bly."

Blythe Carter screamed, letting out a hollow cry of sorrow, but no unavoidable Grim Reaper approached her. Instead, she clasped her hands with him, his sleeping, peaceful eyes, and a painful lock of liquified emotions escaped, another part of him in her. He went where all the Hummingbirds flew, the venue, following the trail of immortal holy men. His room just before he traversed to another, took the colourations of peace and unbothered beauty. Everything was just as it was ever been, no noticeable change had taken place. Great sunlight was peeking through silk curtains, goldening and brightening the scene, and the holy man had begun his long sleep in this wholesome human world. Eyes wide shut, no mark of scar upon his fresh body, fragrant of Lotus. An imprint of a placid smile upon his elysian physiognomy. Memento Mori.

Gone with his fragrance deposited on her heart.

Blythe knew what he needed. He was buried in the soil of Dreiton, his querencia, next to their cottage, without a coffin. The living organisms on the earth ingurgitated him, and his secrets, disposing himself fully, erasing traces of his truest identity, emanating his woken viridity. It took him back, just him and the voices of Dreiton, cosmogyral shadows and movements had a cessation at the end of the day. His sacred ground. Like every great love story, this one also went unheard, being a passing wind in the world, buried in the sands of time. No one knows exactly of fates of the lovers or their stories, some stories are left unsaid, obscuring the truth from humankind. Nature gifts its secrets to humans, and takes them back when their books of life run out of pages. The lacuna in his heart suffused in the long run.

To him, everything in nature meant something, although it was something that couldn't be predicted by the precedented. A hyompora was an arcane song, a tune that lead him to believe that any waterway was similar to life itself. An authworria occurred in Blythe all this while, not wanting the end to conquer. Wabi-sabi. The suton. Their own orenda extinguished the flame of life, and the oil that fed it all this time came to an end. Gone as an abluvion.

Doesn't a tragic ending make lovers immortal? It does. But all men must die, taking their stories with them. The one, who, was left behind all along, goes into the starry night, ungazing at the stars, uncelebrated and unheard of, her song of life unsung, and she becomes a quiet legend, burying herself with the uncared souls of the sleeping universe; for she has now lost her defining characteristic of identification to the world, her value no longer valid, Her quiet legend. An eclipsed legacy. Stepping into the land of forgotten, never to return.

And the world knows nothing of her, she steps into the great void, across the misinterpretations, the truth remains esoteric, to her happiness, camouflaged, waiting to be noticed by a holy soul, just like other clandestine codes of the universe.

Nature inaugurated them, indoctrinated them and apprehended them when their pages ran out. Everybody wonders how somebody ascertains answers to unfeasible questions. Nature bears answers, and the wise notices those. And produces a name for themselves. They who reveal the secrets of nature to the world, become the greatest, nurtured and preserved by nature, like how it harbours its practitioners or deferential children from harm. Richard Lennon was one of such a kind and the nature took him back, claiming the life of him, finally ending his lifelong survival, carrying him to where he truly belonged.

Sometimes, fate does just the opposite of what you expect. This happened to be only one. Life, truly is, a dew on a leaf of grass. You never know when it will be desiccated. You just don't.