Lying wide-eyed under the sakura tree. The pink flowers falling slowly, lightly caressing my face. I've been here many times before.
The wind picks up the edges of my long yellow skirt as it changes its path. The trim the same as the flowers that brush against it. Warm green grass against my skin. Black ink against white page, "My father never liked this tree." Words don't come so easily anymore.
The pages too are taken by the wind. Stolen. Petals mix with the pages. Pink, white, black… the wind takes it all. The sight is somewhat mesmerizing. You want to save them, but all you can do is lie there and stare. The petals touched by the wet ink, they may still fly on, but they are no longer the same. Tainted, stained. Never to be the same again.
Somehow, I think they look more beautiful now. This misery on the wind… it has always been invigorating to me. Pages splattered with petals caught in the ink. It's more than gorgeous.
Or that's what I imagine it would look like… if I could see.
But soon this tree will be cut down. There is no need to keep what only I loved to see. And in the winter if lie here still, I will feel nothing. The cold will numb me. There will be no black ink on white paper. And there will certainly be no pink sakura blossoms.