behold a dream .｡.:*☆ pink floyd imagines

roger #4

{ mail for 1-800-NORDIK and the man himself, george r. waters. happy birthday you virgo fool :-) }

last night, you went to bed angry and woke up angry with something hot, orange and red, steaming in your chest. the sun is high outside the kitchen window of your home, but you still let out a harsh groan. even buttering toast seems like a difficult task.

roger had assured you he'd be back before you could say his name, but you've said it. over and over in your head as you try to sleep, as you clean the living room, as you grab an umbrella for a rainy day. you'd begged him to let you on tour with him, but that also came back unsuccessful, characterized by the shake of his head and the furrow of his brow. he was getting old, even he had to admit it, and your hands craved the prospect to hold him, care for him.

"stubborn bastard," you huff and settle on the couch. it's a weekend, another you'll be spending waiting for roger.

the news bores you, as does the morning talk show about nothing, even the cooking segment you sometimes care to pay attention to, always hitting roger in excitement and promising to recreate whatever meal was on tv.

you channel surf for a moment before shutting the tv off and deciding instead to move outside to the garden. you bring a small hand-held radio with you and set it on the ground. your blooms always bring you comfort.

it's a bright day. almost autumn, but still hot enough to make you squint and sweat.

classical music plays on the public radio station, the violins singing in high tones to match the whine of an insect that buzzes past your ear. kneeling down, you uncurl your finger and fondle the soft bud of a red tulip. a few leaves from the adjacent tomato plant have yellowed and crisped on the top of the soil and they crunch when you crumple them into your fist.

"and i've found her, green thumb and all."

you gasp and turn rapidly with the sound of roger's voice soft behind you. the dead leaves fall from your hand like words.

"rog!" you don't mean to shout, but it comes out too quick.

he gives a short laugh and opens his arms for you to jump into them. he grunts with the impact of your frame, cupping a hand to your head and pulling you into his scent.

"i missed you," you say.

"i've missed you." your name sounds good on his tongue: warm, light.

you squeeze him, but then remember: "but you told me you'd be back sooner." your arms unravel his.

roger shakes his head. "i'm here now, aren't i?" his hands fall to his side.

"but still..." you're desperate to be angry, but the light catches his hair and turns his eyes a crystal blue-green. a yellow butterfly passes his shoulder and he smiles, lines spreading from the rise of his cheeks.

"but still?"

"but still, you're my world."

and he truly is, even if he's out of place in the garden with a black shirt and pants. he opens his embrace to you. you fall in and don't let go this time.