a litany of ruminations

rosemary for remembrance

                                                                      (...cyclamen for farewell)

                                        (your garden variety dosage of tear-inducing poetry.)

oh, tell me,

how can i  forget someone

who gave me so much to remember?

he remembers laughter carried on the breeze, the jangling bells of the door of the storefront opening, a constant refrain in the recesses of his mind.

how fragile she was, delicate and pale as a paper cutout, like something ephemeral and not-quite-all-together there, as if tethered to this earth with a single binding thread--

like a spirit, pale threads of silk, shading eyes of finely cut jade, often sliding shut from the insomnia she suffered from---causing sporadic naps throughout the day from the lack of sleep at night.

a cat yawns and curls beside her at the wooden table at which she rests in the shape of a question mark, constantly inquisitive, fur like dancing coal dust through the air you can't help but inhale the toxic adorability of the scene, cat and girl lost in slumber together.

he smiles, afraid to blink because if closes them and opens them once again he's afraid they'll be gone in an instant.

he opens his eyes again and they're still there, and for that small blessing he is grateful.

(why...why are they wet...?  he swipes at them, indignant at the notion--)

it seems like she's sleeping so often these days, when at night she is widest awake with that cat of hers, constantly trailing in her footsteps eyes a luminous forest hue, tail swishing side to side, side to side like a constant pendulum, keeping time with every ticking second, every passing breath--inhale---exhale.

when the sun shines she closes her eyes, but when the moon glows, smiling in the slightest of ways, glowing gentle and soft they are wide open as if to capture that light and store it as energy recovered through her sporadic naps. he supposes it's fitting, the way she's so quiet, nearly silent, really, and reserved whenever the rare occasion rose that she did speak, and sleepy, always, always sleepy, often with eyes half-lidded until she drank her usual milk tea.

(it's sort of hard to notice her if you don't know her, her presence so small among a crowd.)

strawberry, he recalls with a fond smile. she won't take any flavor that is anything less than sugary-sweet, and prefers the drink piping hot---and no caffeine. it's a wonder how she stays awake, if at all. she often drank it from a mug that had the image of a cartoon-like sleepy cat on a pale pink background. it was pretty fitting for such a drowsy, cat-like little teen like her. she could even be described as nocturnal.

another thing. her constructs of glass, of gentle curvatures and fine details, of murals of stained glass incandescent when the sunlight struck the intricately arranged shards.

crescent moons, dotted with pockmarks and craters and dust grey hued glass, like crooked, grinning smiles.

of stags, magnificent antlers curving, arching backwards, coiled, sinuous muscles poised and ready to leap from its perch of 'rock.'

of waves, curving and frozen in the state at which its peak, seafoam and froth threatening to spill over, crest to meet trough and glass tinted a deep sapphire blue to sea-aquamarine and transparent crystalline white, washing away on the shore and back out to the sea once again.