He knew he should turn around, move on, never look back. It was dangerous, a slope he wouldn’t be able to stop sliding down, once in motion.
But there she was again, just as she had been the day before: feet planted firmly in the wet, slushy soil, her body shaking, her heart crumbling with the rest of her body, freezing in the bareness of her trampled love. In the sun, she would evaporate, and he would think nothing of her save a wispy sentiment. But standing there, in the halo of the moon, warm red hair, tears of pearl, snow like powdered sugar on her lips, his mind went barren, save for one monolithic thought: she looks so beautiful.
He wanted to break her again, into pieces of gleaming glass that he could pick up, stinging his hands with jagged beauty and familiar warmth, just to meld them back into a lonely star, shining only for him. He knew she’d leave him as quick as she came, prick him just the same, but he wanted it. She was his muse, and the artist could never forget her, replace her. He jerked her towards him, softly parted her hair, lifted her chin up, her eyes pleading in their shades of grey, tinged with blue. Her icy face thawed with the warmth of a giggle breaking through as she laughed at his comically serious face. He quieted her with a ghost of a kiss, reminding her of what she had always known, and knew till the day she died: I’ll never forget you.
A cold gust of wind sharpened his eyes, blowing her away, his heart with her.
Quietly, he placed the flowers on her gravestone, cheeks soaked with madness and regret, and walked away, knowing he would be back tomorrow, and every night after, forever.
– Pihu J.