|Fell Like Christmas Eve
Author: Frore PM
"One must stop asking questions when they’re all alone. They reflect off the walls and hover like bats."Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Romance/Angst - Words: 1,155 - Reviews: 3 - Published: 04-10-06 - id: 2150542
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Yet another sad romance that I wrote a while ago…. Wow, I didn't realize just how cluttered that time period was with these.
We watched as the seasons faded and the snow fell like Christmas Eve, tickling the edges of your feet with newfound cold. And you, you, my Angel, brought along candles to make your eyes shine brighter than a burning funeral pyre, with all the light in the world, yet you saved none for yourself. You are the reason for your existance but your search for meaning came up empty. So barren, lost in a boneyard of sadness and stone.
We wept for hours and let you be.
Could ice touch your bones from under the casket? Could you feel the sadness rain down upon your fragile, slender features like psychic vibes during an undead phenomana? I'd like to think so. My mind poured so much anguish during those times that I can't bear to remoisten the tears I will always hide for you.
Three days.... three days... three days.
The calender says three days. I wish it hadn't been longer. I wish the times in which we were together were closer at hand, maybe I could grab them, maybe... maybe I could watch those lenses blink in confusion, smile, then dash away from me without a second thought. All these wishes to hide from you; even hiding won't make you smile again.
Another week goes by while all my despair revives, and the snow still falls like Christmas Eve. The ice still hasn't touched your bones but rather seeped into your core like a new religious belief, changing your outlook on everything, and even your eyes make the world appear a deeper shade of blue. You heard a song, once. Said it fluttered inside your heart like an unsettling feeling. Now all you do is sing and not once have I felt that same sensation of guilt's slayage lifting me from these splintered pews. I see a sermon's lips moving. Organs lilting the air. Choirs. Blank pages. But I don't feel that stir, that movement you pulled inside my heart.
You are a song that will remain unsung, and once again, I'm sorry Angel, you are all alone.
Could you always feel that strange, winter frost freezing the doors of your heart closed, seeling them, locking me out? Or did it come on suddenly, like an abrupt hemerage of self punishment? Aches can be rubbed away with care. Not longing. A lesson you had learned before you'd even surrendured yourself to the hours of a late night harlot. I tried to tell you once but you just wouldn't listen...
I hear the music again and the snow has melted away, pooling in puddles like the blood of an ocean god. Inside, you sing that same old tune, a wilted voice so tainted with doubt that it just doesn't ring like it used to when we were young, and the snow still fell like Christmas Eve. I wanted to hold you then: yet another wish I'll always hide. I wanted to wrap you into an embrace that would simmer each frigid medley of pessimism that follows you like the breaths you exhale. Could you... if you could...
You couldn't. No, no, wouldn't. A time came when you apologized for reaching out too quickly and I told you to inhale, to stop - to forget everything - all of these childish cares. When in the flowering of ones age, it seems hardly plausible to be settling down forever like a swallow who lays her eggs too soon. I'd forgotten how warm summer could be....
When I saw how quickly you picked out your headstone, part of me died and inhabitted it's dwelling. Your fingers, long and slender and perfect, traced the name that you just couldn't find elegance in, not anymore, like a widow weeping as she peers through an old photo album. Remember that grace? Remember when you painted the stone with the oil of your fingerprints? Was that even a...
One must stop asking questions when they're all alone. They reflect off the walls and hover like bats.
To touch the face of God is to recall how you've lived and smile. Be able to grin about all the times you've cried. And I? I am just as lost as you are, trying to uncover the missing piece, listening for the click when it will all make sense again. It wasn't that it was less nonsensical before, but because we were too young and ignorant to realize just how unfair life would become.
That was less than a year ago, when your eyes looked less azure. When we didn't have to reminisce and feel like we had something worth smiling over, we just did, more naturally than breathing. Now I can hardly feign a laugh; can't shake loose this lacadasia the way I used to. I'm an old man, you see, and I haven't a wrinkle on me.
The sun drowns in a colder shade of red, though it is any other color, while if you look out the window, the glass is painted with pictures and the snow still falls like Christmas Eve. And you... my Angel, my only Angel, are awaiting out there with a smile on your face, knocking on the door, singing that same old tune. I'd forgotten how beautiful they were, a smile and a song. If only I could have remembered sooner;
I would have looked back and smiled; touched the face of God. An old man in the prime of his life, gazing back at this memory, feeling that same warmth I used to gather when we were only children. Painful as it is to admit, aren't we little more than that? Children? Children that used to laugh and play and love and learn.
The snow was falling like Christmas Eve when you died in January, not even a month later. And that same warmth the Holidays used to carry was frozen to death by it's own tears for my Angel sweet, to give you wings, make you feel lighter than those beads of depression. The headstone reads "Lost but not Forgotten," just the way you picked it out to read. A reminder for me to never abandon your image, you told me without words. How could you even think that when you know that I'd do anything for you...
I left your headstone alone that night, heart falling down the six feet deep plunge into your chest like the snow on Christmas Eve, when we used to smile and pretend that nothing else mattered.
When we didn't have to smile and pretend, like nothing else mattered.