We can be heroes just for one day, but villains can be villains all the time. – Ward Clever
I walked the bridge under troubled water, the raindrops, the raindrops, splattering on my skin like I was the street this morning. No bumbershoots or bumblebees, neither they nor the rain stung my skin, supple as it was from our yesternight afterglow. Siphoning glory from our collective happiness and mutual admiration society meeting the previous evening, my fingers were limned with white everywhere I touched you. You stayed in bed because you were feeling very well, while I went out into the world, walking the burning bridge not yet gone critically damaged. Streets were deserted, abandoned in front of the coming storm.
My feet were leaden with the gravity of the situation so that I could not be moved against my will, frustrating the winds and angering the moon. The earth held on to me tightly, refusing to let go, but terrafugia was my pulchritude. From as high as I could climb, I wondered if I had set the bridge ablaze, or if it had ignited me. While pondering this gypsy wagon of thought, I found myself halfway across a tranquil pool. Staring within, I caught a glimpse of you pleading silently for my return, longingly. Hastily I located what I had come all this way to find. There in the clearing grew that one particular flower, you know the one I mean. I avoided the trap fools fall into, that of taking the beauty without the growth and life and love. I dug up the whole thing, placing it lovingly into the mosaic pot made of the shattered and reassembled pieces of your soul. The unlikelihood that a flower could smile became a certainty that it would. Shining with a purple haze, it whispered for me to take it home.
I ran on top of the surface of the pond, powered by fate, feet making sparks across the water. Upon arriving, I found you standing in the doorway, aching for my return, craving the bits of yourself that you had placed in my heart so you could become whole again. We painted life on each other’s bodies indelibly but invisibly, unseen but felt deeply and continuously. That flower in your soul guarded the door, refusing to let time or death or entropy in while we gave life to one another. I tasted your desire on my tongue and held nothing back, and you took me in eagerly, unconcerned with measured breaths or raindrops. My fingers explored your curves and contours, pausing to turn your pages. Post le petit mortem, we slept uncovered while the world failed to upset us or bury us. Our time on this earth was limited, but we figured out how to perceive it slowly, sipping every second, one raindrop at a time.