It was a warm summer's day where the wheat in the fields was swaying, and the wind danced a waltz with the tall green grass. We were sitting on our red-and-white checkered picnic blanket; you with your straw hat and cheery dress, and me with my same old drabby sweater. I bet you would tease me still, about wearing warm clothing in the summer.
Our hair had gone rogue and after a long and unfruitful struggle, we had given up on controlling it. You with an infectious laugh, and me, with a vaugely familar one.
You had quickly finished most of the food and I, already having lost my appetite, was sipping the tongue-burning coffee; I look back now and realise that somehow, it hadn't burnt your tongue, but mine blazed as if set on fire.
Oh look at me! Blaming a drink for having been partial!
And now I laugh like a demented old fool!
I closed my eyes and listened to the wind's melody shift from a slow waltz to a sorrowful ballad.
I had never been ready for change but change is what kept you going. You did not want to be placed within a box, and I could not find a box inside of which I should stay; curled-up like a snail…a common garden snail.
All that I know to do, all that I have ever done, is chase you. For you my friend, you, are the tulips and the daisies and the little wildflowers, white as rice; you are the wheat in the fields, you are the wind and the breeze, and the moon behind the trees; you are the clouds in their migration, a veil without obfuscation; and you, are my only dedication.
You are the glint of a wedding ring, and I, the metal that binds the future.
And I wish with all my heart that I had not lost you, every single day, I do. For I am the roses and the distorted darkness when morning light floods the room; I am the still, stagnant river, and the green grass that sways with your white seeds, the raindrops when they fall on your cheek, the rays of the sun that burn through the earth and the icy rocks at the mountain peak; I am the shooting stars that could never grant you your wish, the murderous shard of a shattered dish;
I am the crystal goblet, and you the wine, I am the coal, and you the mine.
And as we sat there that day, I noticed that you were fading away; I held you in a tight embrace, hoping that I would not have to begin a chase; but I have, and I am still running.
When, after that day, I was looking for a place to stay, I failed to find a home; I could not stay with an unknown family, I could not let myself walk back to where we were, and it is not as if I could find solace in the chambers of Valhalla because I was still here, in this breathing, mortal world.
Then I stopped myself, and somehow, I found a shelter inside of me; It was warm, and bright, and the smell of freshly-baked bread, and newly-used ink wafted in the air.
And there were tulips; beautiful purple tulips in green fields, and the moon bowed down to them, and so did the winds, and the trees, and so did I; for at the corner of the room, I saw the petal of an innocent red rose, a rose that had bloomed from my heart and, on being old enough, had fallen from it, scattering its petals all around this room, this home...you.