The pickaxe fell silently but the morning glories bemoaned its screaming intent.
Leopard sweat and moon glazed skin, tulips bloomed where he swayed and died where he slept.
Does he love?
No question could have been asked more often or with as much silent, shamed, and unbelieving hope.
An old growth forest couldn't disguise a bashful sigh and couldn't hide what was so plain to the world even covered in mud and blood, under dappled light of searching sun (hindered by the blushing leaves).
Like spotlights the sunshine found its way to him, exposing rose bud sovereignty.

And it fell again and again, picking and axing at nothing in particular. Well, nothing important, at least not to him.
Lightning strike and electrocution bleach his bones and dye his skin.
Heartache and hot cheeks flush the memories to one's face, still disabled by his scent
His look
His touch.
He breathes you in. And breathes you out, the dampness is overwhelming—respire.
Try all you want, all you'll catch in your lungs is him, inescapable.
Suffocating in your moment, living in stolen time, he peers back at you from the murky hollow where all the trees intersect. Face paint glistens, catching light that had no right to caress what you couldn't.
He speaks only in incandescence.

It all gives way, broken and tumbling. Gasping for breath and spitting out sorrow, you retch, technicolor dreams cutting your throat, gums, and lips.
One last look, just one smile, a slight curve of the lips… acknowledgment is all you seek.
But no.
The trees consume him and all you're left with is a lingering scent of

Gold & Ether.