Lies of a Story Teller

What the Flowers Fortold

My attempt at heartache romance. TMC says it's fluffy. xP

I also think it bears mentioning that I do not feel this way about anybody. This is purely ficitonal.

Also, a little bit of a guilt trip since I haven't written anything on RR in forever sooo....read this instead. -FlyOn

I hate describing her. No words, in pen or voice, can bring her so clearly to your mind. A picture would fall closer to justice, a sketch might suffice, but her face frozen in time would still never near the woman who I want you to see. You would never know her voice, her hands, her heart. And you would be better off stumbling in the dark if you saw her beauty but never truly saw her.

Sad that I would land on the topic of stumbling so soon, but it is closest to the truth. I speak of her as if I know her. As if I could hope to understand the pieces that make up her whole, let alone lay claim to them. Her eyes are mystery embodied, her body is a hot confusion of flesh and blood, and her voice is heartache soaring on the wind that tosses her hair. I imagine hunted rabbits feel the same way that I do when she is near. I wonder sometimes if she can smell my fear, see my trembling, and hear the breaking of my heart as she passes.

She loves me not, you see, or so the flowers foretold. I checked each petal and every one returned a reverberating negative.

And yet I seek her still. How can I hope, I wonder, to lie near a woman who’s heart is a raging inferno and mine a tiny block of ice? She is healer, friend, seeker of God and I am a blackened fool who wishes for nothing but selfish gain. I know it’s true. Even now, all I imagine is a life of self-fulfilled happiness with her. What of her own happiness? Shouldn’t her pleasure be above my own if I love her as much as I say I do?

But I do love her. For beauty? Perhaps. Her smile is like no other, her eyes whirling pools, and her hair a cascading waterfall…but that is only love at its shallowest. I love her for so much more. I love her for the poetry of her words, her smile for a stranger, her hands that reach even the farthest and most lost of wandering souls. Her heart is an inferno, it’s true, but she uses the warmth of her flame to kindle fires in others, and this, above all else, I cherish completely. She is like a doctor for the sickened heart and that is a rare and beautiful thing.

If only the flowers knew what morbid fate they seal for me, each colorful petal floating to the ground, spelling out my fate. Or doom, rather. She loves me not, she loves me not, she loves me not…

But I will not quit. Perhaps one day she will see. Perhaps one day I can be called worthy. Perhaps one day the flowers will smile up at me and change their minds.

It is this hope that keeps me picking, like a machine with no variation in result.

Even just one error would make the difference. Just one she loves me.