The day you left, your roots were torn. It wasn’t a sudden or blunt affair, but rather slow like the moon stepping before the pitch dark curtain of the night to flaunt its color. A clean cut of thirsty fingertips begging for its shoulders back; I bet if I dug any longer, I’d surely find them waiting for me in their solemn rest. But I refuse to force my fingernails into the Earth any longer, and not for the pride one may see painted upon my surface.
When your petals dried up, you lost your appeal, you surely did. You turned from a pale blue to a crippled mess like autumn leaves in the heat of a summer night–but still your hues of purple clung to the periwinkle as I knew they would. Even your rusted edges had an allure enticing as sweetest honey, and rich in color like it too. It’s no lie when I say, I loved each petal even as they fell, so don’t look upon me from your perch in the clouds with the malice we might share.
I still loved you as the flames consumed your stem. You were beautiful, hues shifting from your azure enchantment to one of ash and light pure as the sun’s. I remember the exact moment you became indistinguishable from the blanket of soot, the moment the first tears were allowed to fall on anyone’s account. I could’ve cried oceans deep and blue as your sapphire eyes, I’m sure, but no river could’ve brought you back or fed your figure as it did before.
But now you’re in my arms once more, the metallic walls of confinement separating us in our keep. I peel the lid of your cage back and take a moment just to stare, the smell of flowers wafting in the wind as you whispered through the breeze. That field was always one for ruin, we always said so. Your ash settled nicely into its soil, cleansing the grass which stood tall as I. You stole my tears once more, my dear, and with them came the clouds’ to wrap up a scene I couldn’t bare finish.
That field never bore flowers no matter how hard we tried to force the seeds into its skin. Just grasses dead as plague, and dry as if the sun had kissed them herself. I hated its lack of life and called it ugly as if I could criticize in good faith. But I think I knew deep down that I myself never lived in our silent state. The grasses, trees, nature which once was, has all lived a life even if brief—and that, my dear, is more than I could ever say. But you were always more, clinging to your glint even as your world went up in flames and followed you down our perfect line of ancient blue. So hold it tight and never let your shining iris fly from your grasp, for you’ll always lie awake in that brand-new patch of blue delphinium.
