The labor of love

The lights in the tree only illuminated his pain and cast the shadows of his regret in blackened puppetry, reflected in his eyes, almost closed so as not to see. The tendrils of her voice crept through the leaves; a snake in its own right, but not through the fault of her own. To him, it was her laugh- to others something else, but the seconds dripped from the heavens and fell around him, counting the time he wasn't with her.

Her beauty wasn't so much written in the willow of her face, but in her tongue, for carved there was her poetry and she never let it slip. Each word was a pinprick, a fleeting glimpse of song; an echo in the western caverns, yet she knew it not to be. He could still smell the sweetness of her skin as she'd sat next to him, he remembered as if it happened still, but all he could sense was her gaze; wondering along the edges of curiosity

Where she sat, he had clamped his arms around her waist, perhaps to show, perhaps not to. All he knew was that he mustn't find out, because he couldn't believe it himself. He, who'd never even thought of love as real, had fallen through her glass, cutting himself on the sharpness of his surprise, for he remained surprised still. Her red coat was creased under the tightness of his grip and he longed to take her hand and rescue her from him because her eyes spoke the sadness her voice could not

Her lips would taste of roses, blooming and stained in sunlight. Her chin would be as soft as the lilt in her voice. He would take her hand, feel its warmth and place it upon his cheek, reaching inside himself for the courage he needed to further his actions and hold her waist close to his. He would tangle his fingers in the freshness of her hair and lift her chin to see her eyes, slowly tilting towards the crescent of her lips until they met with his, and in front of them all they would kiss. Reality whispered his name as he saw her smiling, only to scream as he watched them leave.

Her empty seat filled the garden with a ghost; her ghost, haunting him because he loved. The others talked, only to find him listening to the absence of her voice, but if they ever thought than they never said. He tried to erase her from his mind, if only to spare his friend, but her face kept coming back, as bright as the gleam in her eyes whenever she laughed. Nursing his drink, he returned his gaze to the floor and thought back to the tightness of his grip, the smugness of his stare and longed to have her for himself. With a sigh, he shook his head as if shaking away a dream, and in a way he was; she was his dream.