(I think I have problem coming up with a good title for my stories. It was a really bad day for me today, so I kind of finished this in a rather hasty way, but I need a opinion for this one, because I might submit it…well, somewhere. I just finished writing this, so there might be some errors)
Such a mellifluous symphony; the waltzing elves in my ears, humming aubades by my pillow, your voice is honey-dripping, marvelously buttered, and I always adore hearing it. Our time sets us apart; all I have is an old timepiece, its shell trimmed with gold, ticking and beating beneath my coat. What you left me is a millennium, an endless, unbreakable mixture of emotions that eats up my thoughts every dawn. You sit beside me, at one spring’s end, beautiful, but drawn out of life. I brought you back to life from the cold grounds, and I wonder now if that was my best choice.
I felt your breath against the nape of my neck, as I held you close to me. I relished every moment of it; the taste of your lip against mine, and the flickering light of warmth alive in your hand. I set my clock to six, six for the years I have been separated away from you. Six for the times I tried to follow you, wherever you might be. Now you are here with me, trapped in an abyss, my thoughts descending deeper and deeper into a lightless void. There were times that no words were needed, the times that all we needed was each other’s company. Now I wish you’d say something. Just a mouthful of letters, a pinch of sound, a speck of life.
A peculiar thing, death is. A bizarre, odd matter, a contradictory, very baffling subject, yet an inseparable paradox of our lives. Time passes like sweeping leaves on our front porch, and I am the one who is unaffected by the blizzard. You are covered with snow, crossed the lake through the blizzard. There are snowflakes dangling precariously on your long eyelashes. You are all frozen, I cannot deny that. If I ask you where you are, you won’t reply me. All I know is that you are somewhere far, somewhere unreachable. I tried to pull to up some time ago, and your finger shattered into a million shards of broken feelings. I am here, I wish you are aware of that, sitting by you all day long, talking, humming, but mostly trying to find the last flicker of warmth in you.
I bring your tea set to the chair you are sitting on, and brew your favorite earl gray tea. A sugar cube like always, a spoonful of honey and maybe, if you feel like it, a half spoon of milk. I put them before you, waiting for you to bring some to your lips. The lips that once moved like petals of apple blossom flowers. The painted flowers on the white ceramic surface of the cup dance in your eyes- daffodils, roses, morning glories, and lilies…Dorothy falls asleep in a field embroidered with poppies and wakes up in the end. My Dorothy lies still, unmoving, cold and silent.
I remember you loved honey-roasted almonds and toffee butter biscuits, so I bought some from the grocery store. When I approach you, I notice that your wedding ring has slipped from your shattered finger. It bothers me, and I try to fit the ring on your other fingers, but your fingers have thinned so much that each time I try to fit it, like the day I vowed to love you for eternity, it falls to the ground. I see a badly mangled body of myself, morbid and finally glad I get to be near you somehow. My time with you is bitterly ephemeral; our tragedy is visceral and heart-wrenching, an irony that seems to be a wild, wondrous play from far.
I beckon the presence of each other encompasses every elements of one’s worst nightmares. I recall the times we spent amid the lightly falling snow, your face slightly flushed, and your beam was as bright as a shimmering prairie under the sun. Then there was this time when we sat on a beach, feeling the waves crashing against the sands. The setting sun splashed golden glow onto the waters and on our faces. The summer breeze was soothing, balmy, and you started humming Liszt’s Liebestraum. The callow, tangled emotions of our younger days were what marked the best times of our lives. My life.
The dead one never speaks. I touch your lips once more, in search of little vestiges of hope, that you would greet me in aprons when I return home, with a spatula in one hand and spoon in another. There were times so colorful, you cried over a burnt turkey on our first Thanksgiving. We made egg-shaped chocolate on Easter, and you forgot to put sugar in it. You gave out the bitter candies to the village children on Halloween. We were busy with our jobs sometimes, but we always spent our dinners together. Mealtimes were happy, and I was happy too. I sit at the dinner table alone, munching microwaved turkey leg and some frozen asparagus, engulfed in callous trick of unspoken words.
Ah, what a beauty you are! Your beauty leaves me speechless as always- you are a reverie of wildflowers. As well-preserved as the fish in our fridge, you never fail to take my breath away every time I lay my eyes upon you. Your unsmiling face then sets me sinking back to reminiscence of our past days, and I feel inerasable traces of yearning, longing and also regret. My clock still points to six, the clockworks stopped their magic a long time ago, collecting dust on hands inside the almost opaque glass. There is only one more spell I can cast. I wonder where we would be if time hadn’t set us apart. I know what to do. I always did. I just did not want to.
The first greening of the grass blows the horn, telling the world of heralding spring with a glimpse of brilliant colors that soon grows to carpet the earth everywhere. The trees, washed by the fresh daylight and morning dews begin to unfold their leaves, unraveling their finery. It is the greenery of new life that I feel a long dormant pleasure and realize how much I have missed it all. It is a shame you can’t see or feel it. With spring many flowers bloom, each marks another splash of color and life in the canvas of nature: snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils, forsythia, irises, apples and lilacs. Three springs have passed since you sit here beside me, and I am now the one who gets noticed by the passing seasons.
I head to the café we used to go frequently, order a cup of hot caramel macchiato, and sit by the window. People talk on the street and listen to music from their headphones. I see children hurriedly lapping streams of ice cream, and old couple feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons. It always amuses me how time passes to individuals. It never occurred to me when you were beside me; how cruel and unrelenting time is, leaving the fallen ones to be slowly forgotten and erased from other’s memories, while they continue to stray away, without looking back. Yet ironically it causes us to yearn for a longer time, knowing that it will only leave us to be broken beyond repair.
It was a splendid pleasure knowing you. Our roads were diverged from the first place, but I absolutely do not regret getting to know you, holding your hand, whispering words of love, and saying, “I do.” I suppose this is another irony that time brings us. I believe in sunset that eats up the world in a magnificent golden glow. I believe in dandelion seeds that travel over the world with a single breath of wind. And I believe in timeless irony of time. Even if I were given one more chance to turn the clock, I would do the same, over and over again.
If you ask me about love, I will say love is all about time. It is the way two travellers meet on the same road, and their time interlock around them. We met on one of the crossroads. Unfortunately, your time was too short. The long winter is now over, and I hope to find warmth in my world too. The magnificent spectrum that lived in your body has now faded away with the last snowflake of the year. My clock points to twelve again, to where it started, to where your time ended, to where I will start off at another road of my life. To where it should have been from the moment our time ended. I can’t say I am perfectly fine with it, though after so much time has passed. I am still learning to cope with your absence. At least I know you will be waiting for me when my time is up.