Our Little Cherry Blossoms

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Often I go days without thinking of him, telling myself that my affection has withered from a plump carnation to a single, dried up seed driven out of its flower. Without a doubt he cares nothing for me. If I were to pass on from this life, his tears would laugh at me for hoping. I wanted to tell him, with all my heart I wanted to tell him how I've stared after his footprints these five years, too afraid to even catch a glimpse of his distant silhouette lest he find me a fool for thinking I ever had a chance. This story was written out of a hope I soon saw as disgusting. Thinking of these events I've fabricated to satisfy my repugnant fantasies pitches a pellet of bile down my throat which bursts and ejects all its abhorrence into my bloodstream. Fantasies of being with someone who thought me as a weed amongst the sunflowers. In spite of the revulsion I felt toward myself, my chest blooms in bittersweet exhilaration amidst the tar.

What I've written is a love in which I've phased out all the rejection and cowardice, replaced by inexplicable reciprocation of affection from one to another. My flaws replaced with the silent beauty I desperately coveted. I began this story at the peak of my fondness for him, when my hope and naiveté took to the sky and refused to come down. Seeing this story stirred revulsion, regret, and a bitterness toward myself for being love's fool. Now, returning to its side after my passion burned up the remaining firewood he tossed me, I understand the err of my negativity. As I was rejected from his life, two characters came to find the painful happiness I pined after. They are the bittersweet joy blooming in the murk. The disgust I felt died with my hope to be with him, but the embers from that fire will not be stamped out so easily. I no longer have the authority to turn away and halt their journey on account of my self-pity.