I had to say goodbye, not because of what was said but because of the unsaid. Your words just never materialized, and words being as they are, the lifeblood of my being, I began to die from the lack of them. Long ago, I knew your words so intimately, but then they remained frozen, resting frigidly on the tip of your tongue. And even though I trusted you in earnest with the conviction of a true believer, you stopped being as you were, the truth and spirit in you unrecognizable, just a breath away from mine. Your silence flooded my body, and I was drowned by words that never surfaced. You felt empty to me like ashes in somber refrain. And the wind took you quietly away from me on a path that never belonged to me. It was in that moment I realized we were never meant to be because real love speaks from deeply buried places and never runs out of words.
All the days began and ended with crimson, whether flowing with an abundance of tangerine or saturated with the soft hues of saffron, depended mostly on the seasonal viridian. The afternoon sky never changed though, always a pale azure. Why couldn’t it ever be a shade of purple like amethyst?
She’d always delighted in things of amethyst, and as all days began and ended with crimson, she accepted the fact that she’d always face the effects of azure. In the lull of the day, she’d close her eyes and see lazy shades of tangerine, but opening them once more; she was snapped back to the views of viridian. Sometimes the sweeping countryside was painted yellow like saffron;
harvest time was the beginning of the days of saffron. She wondered why the meadows couldn’t ever be lilac like amethyst; for now, they were a lovely shade of viridian. And as the day moved along, there came creases of crimson with its various placid shades of tangerine. The blue from earlier didn’t seem so bad now; what was wrong with azure?
Yet deep in her heart, she knew the answer to azure, and as her hair glowed in the last light of saffron, and as the day passed over with a faint tinge of tangerine, she laid back and dreamt of a world colored in amethyst. The following day, she was awoken by streams of crimson, and out in the far-off distance, shown waves of vivacious viridian.
But as the winds blew east to west, casting shadows on its viridian, the sky began to blacken, turning a darker shade of azure. Then the poppies swayed, brilliant in their beds of crimson, each little face marked boldly with a fleck of saffron. And against the foreboding sky, still absent of amethyst, a bolt of lightning struck in trembling tangerine.
The whole landscape then unfurled, transforming to tangerine. Black plumes of smoke choked out all the velvety viridian, and in the wake of disaster came a sudden array of amethyst. Fiery fields full of bloodthirsty life blotted out any hope for azure and wilted away the soon-to-be season of saffron. All was cursed now in the vilest of crimson.
She stood and prayed for the sky to regain conscious efforts of azure. Sadly, the waves of fortitude would not yield its season of saffron. Patchworks of hopefulness died that day in a different kind of crimson.
And then suddenly you were gone like the rustling of crumpled leaves fading against the backdrop of a saturated city
My sails became limp and lifeless hanging threadbare against Times Square temptations leaving me with a melancholy mindset in the midst of a cosmopolitan dream
Manhattan meanderings simultaneously stifled an adventure left orphaned under clouds full of finality
A meteor shower of emotions enhancing the dimly lit depression causing a crater of convictions to overflow and seep into the crevices flooding my ever-dispirited heart
Her Writing Haven 