I just stopped believing in happy endings and safe harbors I could find. After all, love is an emotion that calls for everything I am not. I’ve gotten so good at shooting down any emotion this tired world can bring that my mind is full of screaming hyperactive flaws. I just want to lie down because the colors from these inconvenient fireworks hurt my eyes and only remind me of the failed love than began last summer in the field of blue flowers.
So I returned to the scene of the crime.
The color of tranquility and intellect and healing found on the soft petals. I plucked a single stem with a snap. It felt cool and wet against my fingertips, slightly sticky to the touch from the chlorophyll. To me, this symbolized many things, including the man I loved when he asked me to marry him in this very spot.
But, of course, the world is full of charming devils with silver tongues. He was a liar.
The fight we had with the sharp words splintering the night, he said, “You’ll never be what I need.”
I replied, “But, oh, how I could make you bleed!”
Since then, I’ve known the border lines we drew between us and keep far on my side of the battlefield. But when I find myself dreaming about the past, I return and pick a blue flower to lay it down somewhere to die. When its wilted petals are brown and crackle like the sound of his dry, sarcastic wit, I feel more at ease. I know that this love is forever gone, but I’m not that kind and at least that was my life.
But you had to come along, didn’t you? Where do I go when every “no” turns into “maybe”? So what do I do with this sudden burst of sunlight, catching me with my umbrella when I think about the time I used to share with him? This cross-indexes every weatherman’s report.
I think it’s time for winter to well up so I can stop coming back to needlessly pick flowers. I think it’s time for me to heal.
So I returned to the scene of the crime.
The color of tranquility and intellect and healing found on the soft petals. I plucked a single stem with a snap. It felt cool and wet against my fingertips, slightly sticky to the touch from the chlorophyll. To me, this symbolized many things, including the man I loved when he asked me to marry him in this very spot.
But, of course, the world is full of charming devils with silver tongues. He was a liar.
The fight we had with the sharp words splintering the night, he said, “You’ll never be what I need.”
I replied, “But, oh, how I could make you bleed!”
Since then, I’ve known the border lines we drew between us and keep far on my side of the battlefield. But when I find myself dreaming about the past, I return and pick a blue flower to lay it down somewhere to die. When its wilted petals are brown and crackle like the sound of his dry, sarcastic wit, I feel more at ease. I know that this love is forever gone, but I’m not that kind and at least that was my life.
But you had to come along, didn’t you? Where do I go when every “no” turns into “maybe”? So what do I do with this sudden burst of sunlight, catching me with my umbrella when I think about the time I used to share with him? This cross-indexes every weatherman’s report.
I think it’s time for winter to well up so I can stop coming back to needlessly pick flowers. I think it’s time for me to heal.
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