The Death of Us ~ September Free Choice

I opened the stitches

and dived deep into our love,

the love that once danced around our heads.

This rose that we seized the life from,

it still remains in my wound,

lays there helplessly.

I once watched as its petals continued to stiffen.

They shifted from carmine

to garnet

and finally

to love’s death.

A tear ever so gently kissed the ground.

In my wound

I saw my lover.

You glanced at me

with misery in your eyes

and it reminded me:

our love is dead

our rose is dead.

And with this in mind,

I wiped away my tear

and sealed the wound once again.

This,

my former lover,

is how I reminisce.

But now all I can seem to do is press the soil

until the mind is left to forget,

let the petals wither away into the abyss.

We must turn our heads away

and pray that rain does not come this way.

For if it does, 

the stitches will begin to unravel,

we will be forced to drink the potion.

It will trickle down lovers’ throats

and spread into every curvature in our brains.

You will remember, 

remember what the colour red once meant to us:

two hearts beating as one,

two lives intertwined,

two pulses overlapped.

Red meant something greater than ourselves.

It meant love.

It meant forgiveness.

It meant us.

It didn’t mean what it does now:

chaos and violence,

terror and tears,

fires raging at the edges of the scene that melted away.

Red is hatred burning in our lungs,

tieing down our breaths with words we wish we never said.

And so we must bury it, swear to take it to our graves.

Red has always been just two innocent devils in disguise. 

A wilted rose is all it was,

a wilted rose to justify our love.

Days slipped past our fingers.

We diverted from the thin thread that locked us together.

And so, as the story goes,

we soon forgot to water our love.

It weakened but we were not to blame.

You see, where this love was planted, 

a drought hid, tucked near the seams.

There was no water to keep our love alive.

All around us were soulless bodies limping

from one place to another.

So no wonder our rose withered and died.

We blamed everyone but ourselves.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Maybe in another life

where the thought of a drought is as far as eternity,

where our separate paths only strengthen our love, 

just maybe then would our rose stand tall and proud,

beaming with its vibrant tones.

Maybe:

A reality that has always been inevitable in our story.