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You’re 19 when she dies. It’s a house-fire; something red, ugly, ravenous enough that it consumes and takes everything from the inside out. It’s so furious and angry that it makes the sun cry, and invites devils to dance in the living room. He thrashes at night, his skin becoming charcoal and his lungs reduced to breathing smoke. He cries a torrent to put the flames out but it is never enough, never enough, it will never be enough. Leave him in his bedroom, lock the door and throw away the key for this is where he will purge her from his system. Prepare the eulogies, practice the prayer, because no one comes out alive from this. This is how a sinner turns water into wine.

You’re 21 and the gash still throbs. Throw yourself into your work, become a slave to the mine. Gold holds no meaning, and neither does emerald. It is only a reminder of hair and eyes. Hair and eyes. Take from which you want to remember. Her hair is too curly. Her smile too thin. Her nose too slanted. Her jaw not right. Her teeth too straight. She would never have that laugh. She isn’t her. She isn’t her. Where is she? You won’t find her here. You’re still digging for gold and emeralds, but the pickaxe broke a long time ago and now you’re just clawing at dirt. What are you trying to find?

You’re 25 and you stopped leaving flowers everyday. Maybe once a week. Then once a month. Then once a year. It’s hard to believe how many years has gone by without her. You wonder if the world would be better with an angel still residing in it. You wonder how God makes his plans. You wonder where the silver lining is. Where God’s plan for you is hiding. You stopped digging for her a long time ago. You prayed every night. Maybe if you found her skeleton, you could dance with her until her teeth grew back and her hair billowed in the wind. You don’t know why you stopped. That’s the scary part. You looked for a skeleton and found a ghost instead.

You’re 30 and you met someone else. She doesn’t smile like her, she doesn’t think like her, most of all she isn’t her, but she’s someone else. You repeat after yourself. It’s someone else. You fell in love with someone else. You never tell her. Not until the throb is a gentle heartbeat. Not until you feel obligated. Not until the ghost is the only one standing in the way. Someone who meant everything was suddenly the one person stopping you. It hurts, knowing you you have to move on, but so did her death. You get up, you fall in love with someone else, and you love her like mad. But you will always wonder if Adam ever cried when Eve perished and left him alone.

You wonder if you could plant your own rib, if she would be able to grow from it, and love you again.

You’re 40 and she’s 10. She’s wide-eyed gazes and sweet dispositions. She has the most dangerous combination between you and someone else, the innocent smiles and unquenchable eyes. She asks you, “Daddy, who’s this?” when she shows you a photo of flaxen hair and eyes to drown the world for. And you can feel the bluest tinge of sadness. It’s not fire anymore. It can’t hurt you. But it’s still a reminder of your first.

You look at it and relive the memories, the broken heart and then broken head; the bleeding, the bruising, the nights spent reliving a nightmare.

But you relive the moment when you loved her. Meeting her family for the first time. The days spent at her fire escape. Nights when you kissed her until the stars went out. Recounting all the times you saved her. Recounting the one time you didn’t. But remember the sum of happiness that one person could bring. Remember the dry, early burn of dawn when you promised her forever, but gave her only 3 years.

She kissed you regardless, because she chose to spend those years with you.

Prophets loved the world from which they were taken from, and she loved you no less.

– A tragedy to grow old with. (written by amazingarachnid)

#chemistacy  #hopefulpath  #suchpoise  #gwcndolyne  #[ RP | DRABBLE ]  #[ ' love is watching someone die ' ]  

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