It began with an autumn breeze and a song.
A single night and a fleeting moment when her voice was ghostly and tender, and her fingers wound steady and sure through his hair. His head rested upon her knee and he lost himself, lying buried in her touch and his own daydreams. They sat beneath the oak tree before their little house of stone, and the wind was cool against their skin.
Dusk rolled in with the fog and her voice caught. Her fingers tightened and her words were thin when she asked, 'Could you love me?'
September came and went without overstaying its welcome, and their house of stone stood still, the garden laden with leaves of brown and gold. Inside they sat at a table of wood, the same as their chairs and the air was warm. A locket of gold lay at her neck and her gossamer dress was white. His hand slid across her collarbone to trace up her throat, and she gazed upon him with rapt attention.
Her eyes were wide with tragedy, and her body rattled and trembled with every breath. He cradled her jaw and his thumb smoothed over her cheek. She was as a rose, fragile and delicate in her beauty though fleeting. Just as September too had passed it seemed her years moved faster and accelerated, her time waning.
They were afraid of what was to come, though in their own way it was a privilege to feel fear. Others often did not have the luxury of fearing the unknown; instead they were burdened with the fear that there was nothing left to know. She was frail and wasting away, yet even now she had her tenderness to cling to. She hoped to age with this tenderness, and she was patient with her fear.
She was pure, it was true, though he had never dreamed of purity.
'Could you love me,' she began. 'Could you love me a little?'
The trees were barren and the tables and chairs of wood were worn by dust. Their house of stone stood still and silent, untouched by time. The oak tree was old, though still stood strong as its branches swayed gently on the wind.
They sat beneath the tree and watched the sky turn. Her head rested upon his shoulder and her breaths were ragged, punctuated by a sudden dry, rattling cough. It did not startle him, and he tucked her close to his side.
''Let me love the world like a mother,' she said. 'Let me be tender when it lets me down.''
He pressed the ghost of a kiss to her temples and asked, 'The poem?'
They fell quiet, and the howl of the wind was gentle and touched gently at their skin. They had no children, yet she would always be a mother. She would always be naive, and she was prepared to be afraid. As each year passed her fear took up more of herself and she sang a lullaby to her lame organs and limbs. She coddled and endured the fragility of both her heart and body, and she always would.
There was no wind, and the oak tree and the garden stood as still and silent as their little house of stone. The sky was gray and overcast, and the air was stagnant. He sat alone beneath the tree, and his hands, his face and his body were cold.
'I loved you,' he said. 'I loved you.'
The house was quiet and the wood struck through with age. He touched at the empty chair at the table, and still he found the air hard to breathe. His voice trembled when he spoke to the silence.
'What is left in this home, if not the scent of the departed? There was nothing more fearful and beautiful than you. And I loved you. I loved you.'
A single night and a fleeting moment when her voice was ghostly and tender, and her fingers wound steady and sure through his hair. His head rested upon her knee and he lost himself, lying buried in her touch and his own daydreams. They sat beneath the oak tree before their little house of stone, and the wind was cool against their skin.
Dusk rolled in with the fog and her voice caught. Her fingers tightened and her words were thin when she asked, 'Could you love me?'
♡
September came and went without overstaying its welcome, and their house of stone stood still, the garden laden with leaves of brown and gold. Inside they sat at a table of wood, the same as their chairs and the air was warm. A locket of gold lay at her neck and her gossamer dress was white. His hand slid across her collarbone to trace up her throat, and she gazed upon him with rapt attention.
Her eyes were wide with tragedy, and her body rattled and trembled with every breath. He cradled her jaw and his thumb smoothed over her cheek. She was as a rose, fragile and delicate in her beauty though fleeting. Just as September too had passed it seemed her years moved faster and accelerated, her time waning.
They were afraid of what was to come, though in their own way it was a privilege to feel fear. Others often did not have the luxury of fearing the unknown; instead they were burdened with the fear that there was nothing left to know. She was frail and wasting away, yet even now she had her tenderness to cling to. She hoped to age with this tenderness, and she was patient with her fear.
She was pure, it was true, though he had never dreamed of purity.
'Could you love me,' she began. 'Could you love me a little?'
♡
The trees were barren and the tables and chairs of wood were worn by dust. Their house of stone stood still and silent, untouched by time. The oak tree was old, though still stood strong as its branches swayed gently on the wind.
They sat beneath the tree and watched the sky turn. Her head rested upon his shoulder and her breaths were ragged, punctuated by a sudden dry, rattling cough. It did not startle him, and he tucked her close to his side.
''Let me love the world like a mother,' she said. 'Let me be tender when it lets me down.''
He pressed the ghost of a kiss to her temples and asked, 'The poem?'
They fell quiet, and the howl of the wind was gentle and touched gently at their skin. They had no children, yet she would always be a mother. She would always be naive, and she was prepared to be afraid. As each year passed her fear took up more of herself and she sang a lullaby to her lame organs and limbs. She coddled and endured the fragility of both her heart and body, and she always would.
♡
There was no wind, and the oak tree and the garden stood as still and silent as their little house of stone. The sky was gray and overcast, and the air was stagnant. He sat alone beneath the tree, and his hands, his face and his body were cold.
'I loved you,' he said. 'I loved you.'
The house was quiet and the wood struck through with age. He touched at the empty chair at the table, and still he found the air hard to breathe. His voice trembled when he spoke to the silence.
'What is left in this home, if not the scent of the departed? There was nothing more fearful and beautiful than you. And I loved you. I loved you.'