November 5th 2020, the same day my heart withered awry, through the ruined vines came a soft hand whose thorns wouldn't scar. In its stead was cuts on her body dripping with cowardice and regret. With her smile came the mask she couldn't seem to rip from the strap hanging lifelessly against her ears.
My singed fingers attempt to pull her from the ground, and she persists, and as I get a peek of her eyes comes the vision of uncertainty. Her coldness set a shock through my fingertips, my mistakes widening against the pond of my self-awareness as my glasses seem to expand, with the world seeming to spin rounder.
She was the rose in a maze of thorns, something that seemed so untouched yet the apple of one's golden eye. She watched me waltz dangerously on a blazing highway, just barely pushing me away from the fires with what leaves she could reach through the thorns. Always the petals I could talk to when the thorns of my selfishness and her promises pricked me deeper.
Her thorns were a gate I couldn't seem to open. I watched as her vines grew tight to the arm of a measly thief disguised as a prince set to steal her from the blooming garden. I tried my best to water the leaves as they attempted to wither in his touch, and for a while it seems she'd keep him closer and closer, with his hand barely grasping a singular blood red petal.
When she let him go, he managed to rip one off, with it weeping a stream of blood that drowned him in his own bitter conceitedness and egotism. With me tearing apart my prickly vine with a set of shears and watching it fade away as I left her standing in the highway with no words slipping through the final embrace riddled with the resentment I let melt away, I grabbed the torn umbrella and sewed it back with the same thread I used to make my heart whole once more and put it over her.
That same hand I grasped had bloomed from the rose, and held mine warmly. The same face masked with an unbearable façade, gave me a veridical smile engraved into the depths of my thoughtless memories. But her smile put a thought behind a memory, for once. A memory that didn't leave me empty-handed and with the crumbs of the love and promises she handed me that I blindly crushed in my hopeless, glass-door desperation.
She was the truth and realization in one garden, with poppies, snowdrops, and dew-dropped daisies dripping with the genuineness of what love really was. The leaves of her swaying trees left the wind of actuality sweeping against my cheeks. With the wall of thorns came the garden of wiseness, with her scars layering her sorrows into a vial of happiness that lay against the palm of my hand.
Sometimes her flowers still wither with insecurity and nervousness, sometimes her mask straps back on tightly to her face, but there she stood perfectly in the garden as nothing but beauty surrounded her. Everything wonderful about the Earth left itself breathless flocking around her as the fountain teemed with life. She was life, though. For with every breath left the grasses greener, and the flowers in her garden blooming brightly in springtime.
If perfection was the same as life, she'd be the one definition hard to decipher, as she was infinite, ineffable perfection. With a garden more beautiful than that of the Garden of Eden. Or maybe she was created so perfectly in God's image that she was the Garden of Eden.
That's what makes her so infinite and ineffable. The fact there is no way to truly describe her beauty. She was life, perfection, and beauty.
January 31st, 2022, everyday the wind carries memories from her flowers to me that I continue to dearly reap and cherish, with the scars on my fingertips slowly healing with what dew drops dripped from her trees.
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Wrote this for my friend Alexa. I actually managed to whip this up at the end of the school day when I boarded the bus. Mind the title, these were all dumb drafts that I didn't want to make overly-creative names for.
