Close up: A bathroom sink – white porcelain basin adorned with roses all around. A story unfolds in small calligraphy entangled with the roses to end with the quotation "As the redness of this flower, I'm on fire with love". The camera takes a close up shot of the last line. Cut.
The first rose was an accident I think. The predictable outcome of your sweetness. You're just the right measure of honey. I scrape your back and under my nails are the few droplets which I want. With you, I rarely need to rearrange my taste buds.
Near the old buildings – those of the woman you cherish so much. The heat sometimes does not exist in the winter. Sometimes, it dissolves into the coolness of walls much older than you and I. Sometimes the heat escapes in the ripened color of fruit wanting a caress of lips and teeth.
There – in the dissolved heat – I put her gently in the folds of the dyed skin that hold all my unnecessary necessities. Gently so that in her ripeness her petals do no crimson my hands.
Gently, she lies.
If only she could stay as soft as this moment.
I make her shorter – like me – and I smell her heat. The color smells like you – your fleeting scent.
Roses are red. Violets are blue. Angels in heaven. Know I love you.
Wood carries stories better than leaves. The leaves grow weary with memory. They are mixed up in my memory which has worn me out.
I press my pencil to my mind as I touch the wood that was not there that day and try to remember. Where did I leave you?
The pages turn and turn.
I cannot make out the language.
Even though the days had taken away her fullness, she was still soft. Fluid. She flowed as you stared at her on her bed of dust. She flowed as if into a glass – rushing into the arms of a keen pining lover waiting for his fill. She flowed.
I think now I remember. Now as I write this. Yes. It must be it. It is – memory is sometimes kind. I remember where I left her.
She waited for me to take her from you. She kept her water to see me. She kept her fullness and flowed after so long.
So long, waiting, from the day I was standing above you and you were reaching out a tree with the instrument's case, empty of wood.
From that day she waited, beat the dust and flowed like wine into my eyes.
Scene from The Age of Innocence: Black background, the roses waking up deliciously. Budding to bloomed. Open – to the heart.
Little rays of sunshine crawling up from the green base to wash the pink with love. She was big and bold like you.
She was sleeping in paper, yellow golden sheets. She was yawning – prepared for a new life. Yawning in her golden bed as you held her up to me, shaking her waves that were coiffed flawlessly on top of her stem.
You were trying to make me feel better. Roses make me…Is it incomplete? Perhaps
I kept her in water and right before I left I took her with me. My travel companion. My rose. My partner.
You gave me a shred of the sun and I keep trying to braid it into my curls.
Every time I feel down – I feel drenched – I feel dehydrated – I feel cut off. Every time. Then. I wonder if in my sunless days I manipulate you into watering me.
The paper on the wall: "Roses of sunshine. Violets of dew. Angels in heaven. Know I love you".
Does he know?
I remember the story of the dark lover who was lost in the bluegreen waves. I dream. I see the cabin. She melts. I dream.
To belong so elusively to a moment.
To shine those moments of fear of what might have happened had -
If he knows, would you ask him to tell me? I do not know how to feel.
Should I feel the subtleness of the tips on my skin. The coral which I could drown myself in any day – gifted to me so quick I do not notice. But the smell takes me in. Should I sink into them; in their midst and bathe in the tips tickling me as I fall or should I sink my flesh into the thorns?
Let him tell me.
Let me know.
Ask him to tell us a story of lovers lost in a boat of petals sewn together. Lovers wrapped in a quilt.
Do you think he knows the story we want to hear?
His face comes to my eyes and you are in my heart – pumped at every moment of being scared of the smell of roses at my bed.
His face comes to me and his laugh is sweet music coming from above.
You are as beautiful as the grin of his eyes.
Let me sing for you
Come and let me sing to you of petals that do not dry…