I live you. I breathe you. I become you. I take you. I cradle you. I destroy you.

And it would only mean everything if I --

Stares at a blank wall. Desperation in the violet red, in a tone so vibrant it was owned by no one, untouched, unhindered, growing with radiance – an ecstatic wave of pulchritudinous chromatic – and a strange, strange longing. One so desperate that its existence alone was shattering.

To believe, to love, to be silent.

But the roses were a blinking phenomenon. One disappearance meant that an eyeful would reopen a ken of splendor, a flutter of life. Pink, red, shades she had never seen, had yet to see elsewhere.

Believe in me…

"I do, I do."

And what could no longer be was all that was. The garden encroached upon a different shade and a different season. Floods upon the floor boards, a mind becoming broken, everything swimming in beautiful little pieces. Glass shards. Smiles too gleaming to be real. Whispers too intense.

An empty room bereft of color.

The full blooms twined upward and onward, extending toward her like hands, petal-like fingers curved into beckoning hooks. Voices from beyond them, but each extends only from a single throat. The sweetest words the world had ever known, and the roses threatened to wilt in envy.

"Reality…"

"What is unreal."

"Feeling?"

"What is unfelt."

"Love?"

"Is silence…" She whispers outwardly, and one may wonder as they pass from corridor to corridor, perhaps enjoining the latest weather catastrophe with the slightest nuance of inclination, what – or to whom – she was speaking to, murmuring in such soft tones that it may have been a lover, a sealed face within a motionless wall. "Why mention one without the other, when they are indeed both the same?"

And the only words that were spoken were to herself, to that blank white wall, that palette of her fantasies, that arbor of roses, those symbols of silence, sealed away in envelopes of breath and wonderment.

"Is this belonging?"

The roses shimmer an unreal tone, one million petals fluttering like wings, motionless. His hands, the silent one, the one that could never have existed, who had never known the song of corporeality, susurrates,

"You never knew that treachery."


Answer her always, because words are clarity.

To stay silent is to condemn her to a heartfelt smile.