It was the trip of a lifetime, yet he couldn't bring himself to appreciate it. Something was off, the sun positioned too high in the sky, the sea a few degrees cooler than it should have been. Walking down the desolate streets of Paris, he roamed, memories forged into these streets, a lifetime of missed opportunities, a dream that would never come to reality.
He heard her voice in every work of art he saw, echos of those moments where they'd lay side by side as she'd explain a work she was fascinated with by some long dead artist, and he'd listen intently, staring at her face like it was one of those artworks she cared so passionately about, memorising every crevice as she'd laugh absentmindedly, a crack in her cool facade to ask, in a breathless laugh "What are you staring at?".
He'd just smile in response.
He felt her breath in the wind that swept down the winding roads, hidden amongst secret alcoves and nestled between blooming flowers. She'd always told him stories of her childhood in France, those simple years where she didn't know the grief of life on earth, basking in the freedom of youth.
He'd gaze into her eyes, listening intently, savouring every word like he'd never hear her voice again.
He never imagined that would become a reality.
He saw her eyes in the sea, and the grass of the countryside, those mystical elements of green and blue, never quite one, rather a composition in watercolour, the blend of the earth and the sea. Oh, how he longed for her presence beside him, walking these streets with the warmth of familiarity.
It didn't feel right for him to be here alone, basking in the remnants of promises left untouched.
YOU ARE READING
solitude
Poetrysolitude (n.) a state of seclusion or isolation trapped in a tireless melancholy world, aching for the loneliness of solitude. this is a collection of intrinsically created works, the masterpiece of my literary mind. a journey through love and pa...
