The last flowers survived
The sun drowned in my dreams last night, it sunk into the ocean’s ink, into the ashes – leftovers of a loveless sunset. Fires, stronger than the couple of hydrogen and oxygen, guarding the indigo veils, erased the contours of the sunlight. The rays of flamingo elegance escaped under the ugly granules of smoke and then the moon appeared, frigid mistress of the night, with a sterling beauty blinding the stars, spreading light on the wings of ice and whispers about something forever lost.
I woke up just before the beginning of the hurricane meant to demolish the silence in the skyscrapers lined like soldiers, saluting dead palm trees. The grieve had kept the sound of my voice a hostage in the nightmare, the whimsical universe where Lady Moon abducted the charm of every couple’s adagio had taken all my strength; and despite the summer streaming through the curtains, despite the warm, amber skin of the man sleeping next to me, it felt cold, Siberian cold.
I tried to hold to his masculine scent that charmed me in the first place and I wished I could tell him how scared I was, how tragic would be if my dreams came true; but he wasn’t next to me because of the ability to talk and listen and as soon as I realized that he wouldn’t be able to understand why I care so much about the sun, I sneaked out of bed and followed the black marble to the kitchen, looking for a pen and a cup of coffee, thinking how lucky you are to have a cat to snuggle next to.
The radio in the kitchen was still on from the night before and there was a Turkish song playing. I couldn’t make a word out of the lyrics, but I liked the music, perfect for a drive around the city, your city, wherever that was/is/. Somewhere in the sparkling parts of my imagination the majestic, oak trees drifted in the rhythm of the oriental melody and the Spanish moss swirled around like the silk edges of a ball gown.
I heard your words and they carried pearls and breeze, pure poetry and smiles for my heart. And I was sure that the moon will no longer look like “melted mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision”, that I won’t feel “tired, intoxicated”, but only in love with the gorgeous, green land of Flowers, even if the flowers are the last survived, turning slowly into burning candles …
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“We are no more than candles burning in the wind” Japanese Proverb
@ 2012 Broken Sparkles