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Lilac and white

He brought her flowers,

Lilac and white.

Soft, beautiful, gentle like herself.

Hands frail with age,

Meek, shaking with the effort of existence;

Incessantly stirring, like the blood within,

Hold the tender stems.

Milky eyes perceive a foggy soft purple,

Spots of white already take over her vision;

And so white of the flowers befuddles her.

Most days she welcomes white,

But such moments,

she's lost in the unwitting battle

Of what is and what will be.

He smiles,

Soft morning sun kisses his cheeks,

Where the harsh noon has burnt them.

But it doesn't reach his eyes.

All the flights he's taken,

Etched in faint crow's feet, around them.

Many more to come.

Many, that are now forever done.

Eyes shining with almost scared anticipation,

One hand softly rises to her shoulder;

Blink, and it rests.

Engaged in the battle of white and lilac,

She looks up, at the sudden touch.

Familiar stranger.

Nestled in the crumpled folds of skin,

Her eyes try to communicate within;

Is he, her kin?

But the cruel mind has run its course,

White spots in vision become white patches in her memory.

And suddenly, fear takes over.

But it doesn't last,

For what do you fear, if death is becoming a dear friend?

Shoulders jerk, to remove the comforting hand;

Hands rearrange the flowers,

Eyes drop to the feet,

And meekly she asks - "Who are you?"

Sudden falter in the sun-kissed smile,

Similar faces, gazing upon another,

But only his, bears the pain of memories.

Voice quivers, a quick clearing cough,

"Ma, it's me."

Will today be the day of white hope or white blur?

Unfamiliar nostalgia abets

The pain of disabled reciprocity.

The weight of his expectant gaze is too heavy,

She lies down.

Face tilts away towards the familiar walls,

Hands clutch at the soft flowers for comfort.

For how else do you respond, to what never was?

And just like her body wilts,

He loses a little life.

Vivid memories, run like a cruel reel;

Just the the base of her white sheets.

Emotions, physically replayed,

Drip forth from lost eyes.

The comforting hand,

Reaches to comfort his own eyes.

The once pregnant silence,

Has no life within anymore;

And he sits down.

Each is lost,

One in the past and other in the end.

For what really was,

Never was.

And what is, will never really be.

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1 Comment

Melancholy at its best. Ver well written!

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