Forgotten
Too much green. Waves of green around him, in front of him, beneath him. Sodden leaves hanging their heads. Moss resting on the stones. Stems of flowers drooping under the weight of the struggling petals. Too much green, too much life in a place of the dead.
He stared at a cold tombstone. The fresh marker had no plant growth on it, and the grass had not yet crept up around the corners. No contamination yet from the hungry earth with its dirty fingers. No change. The stillness of death. Caskets were always wood, but epitaphs were always stone.
Why had he turned away from her? They had been best friends, a bond woven with sunny days and the tempests in between. He had never meant to lose her.
“No one truly cares about me. They don’t know the real me.”
And the silent promise she had made to herself and to God, voiced only in the wispy cold between the bricks as they walked away from the spilling of their souls. He had known, but it had been too late. He had already left her.
The rain was hitting the tombstone, water oozing from the sides and lingering at its edges. Why did it always rain in graveyards? It rained without her. He thought the sun had shone but it had only been a reflection of a pale streetlight in the puddles. No warmth or life. Just ripples that threw themselves at nothing, spending their energy until it was nothing more than the forgotten part of something bigger.
“There’s something beating in you.”
She had been trying to tell him something, and he had heard the echo, but not the voice. He had answered with the whisper of a cry, faint against her life’s clamor, but she had heard it. That was all she had needed.
He had forgotten.
Those lies that had devoured him, he had let them in. They had been so simple, so beautiful, filled with grace in the way they helped him forget. Happiness had run into his open arms, and he had embraced it with an abandonment that gave nothing back.
The rain invaded his clothes too. How could the water run so smoothly over every contour he tried to hide? His hands were in his pockets but they were saturated with what he had done.
“You don’t talk about her like that. I love her.”
The tongue forming those words had not lied, but they were a lie all the same. She had seen that, but kept it to herself. The knocking on the door. The yellow light shadowing her face. Her eyes looking past the web of pleasure he had constructed. Her apology. It had been empty, not because it hadn’t been sincere, but because there had been nothing to apologize for. No wrongdoing. Just his pride.
They had loved each other, but the worst part was that the love never died. He had pushed that love so far within himself that it came out as a mocking laugh, but she never forgot. Her love always simmered alone, waiting for that laugh to become a voice once again.
She had travelled beyond where he could reach, now. He could reach out and touch her, but it would do nothing. Immovable letters etched into a face of stone, like those before him. She had known what she believed, and had bled its tears.
“Our morals aren’t the same.”
An easy answer to a hard question. Why had he let go of the string and watched her drift into the sky? It had been his last chance of returning to where he belonged. He had craved his demise; now he had obtained it and was happy.
But not like her. Not forever.
Still raining. Still standing. Still remaining at a place he could not escape because he was trapped there. He had locked the shackles himself. The key no longer fit.
Yes, he had shredded her love until the tatters fluttered around them like dying birds. He had watched them stain the ground. He had slit the throat of her faith and left it there to die. Bleeding. He had walked away, amazed and proud of his strength.
She had rebuilt it. Again and again, what he destroyed was renewed. And she would return with those serene smiles and collected words that never pierced his skin, but sliced through his heart.
And that’s what he patched up, those wounds that needed to be left open so that he could feel. He kept every drop of blood so that it wouldn’t betray him. He bled pleasure, not pain. Never pain.
Surely she wasn’t gone. She was always there even when he fought to forget, and when he succeeded (only with alcohol and painful satisfaction, but she would never know that). Her kind of love was for those who were too afraid to take risks. That was why he had never needed it. He hadn’t known until later how much it ripped her apart, and by then it had been too late because he had been eaten from the inside by a single source of poison: his stupidity.
“I will always be there for you.”
Unlike him, she had lived it. She had breathed in the air that was imbued with what she spoke. And it had destroyed her because he wouldn’t make the effort to love himself enough to keep his soul alive.
He had forgotten how.
The storm was shifting now, the rain slackening to a mist. The grave before him glistened, and he almost allowed himself to be overcome with the memory of what he desired the most, the thing he gleefully destroyed But the moment passed, and pain no longer threatened his smooth brow. A night among fellow runaways would iron out any creases.
Having no more interest in the past, he raised his eyes from the gravestone and saw her a short distance away. That love he always remembered was in her eyes. And forgiveness. And the sorrow he put there.
No, she was not dead. He pretended she was, but she wasn’t. Even here, at the funeral of a mutual friend, she reminded him that life always came out of death, that there was always a sunny sky above the clouds. He didn’t want to remember that. He had tasted darkness and decided he wanted to stay there, away from the light that would reveal that he was not okay. The light would force-feed him the reality that behind his composed face was a broken soul. Perhaps to be fed such a truth would be healthy, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested. Medicine was for old men, not for those who had lives to lead.
Besides, she would never die, not how she had planted herself in his soul. Even as he crushed the bloom, a sprout would develop beneath his heel. Her love would be renewed until its Source absorbed it back into Himself. The Source would never die.
Still, he wanted none of it. Perhaps it was worth the sacrifice, but he would rather sacrifice love itself. Less pain that way.
No, she was not dead, but he was. Presented with the chance at life once again, he turned his back and grasped at the familiar immorality. He was always trying to forget.
But it was he who would be forgotten.
He stared at a cold tombstone. The fresh marker had no plant growth on it, and the grass had not yet crept up around the corners. No contamination yet from the hungry earth with its dirty fingers. No change. The stillness of death. Caskets were always wood, but epitaphs were always stone.
Why had he turned away from her? They had been best friends, a bond woven with sunny days and the tempests in between. He had never meant to lose her.
“No one truly cares about me. They don’t know the real me.”
And the silent promise she had made to herself and to God, voiced only in the wispy cold between the bricks as they walked away from the spilling of their souls. He had known, but it had been too late. He had already left her.
The rain was hitting the tombstone, water oozing from the sides and lingering at its edges. Why did it always rain in graveyards? It rained without her. He thought the sun had shone but it had only been a reflection of a pale streetlight in the puddles. No warmth or life. Just ripples that threw themselves at nothing, spending their energy until it was nothing more than the forgotten part of something bigger.
“There’s something beating in you.”
She had been trying to tell him something, and he had heard the echo, but not the voice. He had answered with the whisper of a cry, faint against her life’s clamor, but she had heard it. That was all she had needed.
He had forgotten.
Those lies that had devoured him, he had let them in. They had been so simple, so beautiful, filled with grace in the way they helped him forget. Happiness had run into his open arms, and he had embraced it with an abandonment that gave nothing back.
The rain invaded his clothes too. How could the water run so smoothly over every contour he tried to hide? His hands were in his pockets but they were saturated with what he had done.
“You don’t talk about her like that. I love her.”
The tongue forming those words had not lied, but they were a lie all the same. She had seen that, but kept it to herself. The knocking on the door. The yellow light shadowing her face. Her eyes looking past the web of pleasure he had constructed. Her apology. It had been empty, not because it hadn’t been sincere, but because there had been nothing to apologize for. No wrongdoing. Just his pride.
They had loved each other, but the worst part was that the love never died. He had pushed that love so far within himself that it came out as a mocking laugh, but she never forgot. Her love always simmered alone, waiting for that laugh to become a voice once again.
She had travelled beyond where he could reach, now. He could reach out and touch her, but it would do nothing. Immovable letters etched into a face of stone, like those before him. She had known what she believed, and had bled its tears.
“Our morals aren’t the same.”
An easy answer to a hard question. Why had he let go of the string and watched her drift into the sky? It had been his last chance of returning to where he belonged. He had craved his demise; now he had obtained it and was happy.
But not like her. Not forever.
Still raining. Still standing. Still remaining at a place he could not escape because he was trapped there. He had locked the shackles himself. The key no longer fit.
Yes, he had shredded her love until the tatters fluttered around them like dying birds. He had watched them stain the ground. He had slit the throat of her faith and left it there to die. Bleeding. He had walked away, amazed and proud of his strength.
She had rebuilt it. Again and again, what he destroyed was renewed. And she would return with those serene smiles and collected words that never pierced his skin, but sliced through his heart.
And that’s what he patched up, those wounds that needed to be left open so that he could feel. He kept every drop of blood so that it wouldn’t betray him. He bled pleasure, not pain. Never pain.
Surely she wasn’t gone. She was always there even when he fought to forget, and when he succeeded (only with alcohol and painful satisfaction, but she would never know that). Her kind of love was for those who were too afraid to take risks. That was why he had never needed it. He hadn’t known until later how much it ripped her apart, and by then it had been too late because he had been eaten from the inside by a single source of poison: his stupidity.
“I will always be there for you.”
Unlike him, she had lived it. She had breathed in the air that was imbued with what she spoke. And it had destroyed her because he wouldn’t make the effort to love himself enough to keep his soul alive.
He had forgotten how.
The storm was shifting now, the rain slackening to a mist. The grave before him glistened, and he almost allowed himself to be overcome with the memory of what he desired the most, the thing he gleefully destroyed But the moment passed, and pain no longer threatened his smooth brow. A night among fellow runaways would iron out any creases.
Having no more interest in the past, he raised his eyes from the gravestone and saw her a short distance away. That love he always remembered was in her eyes. And forgiveness. And the sorrow he put there.
No, she was not dead. He pretended she was, but she wasn’t. Even here, at the funeral of a mutual friend, she reminded him that life always came out of death, that there was always a sunny sky above the clouds. He didn’t want to remember that. He had tasted darkness and decided he wanted to stay there, away from the light that would reveal that he was not okay. The light would force-feed him the reality that behind his composed face was a broken soul. Perhaps to be fed such a truth would be healthy, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t interested. Medicine was for old men, not for those who had lives to lead.
Besides, she would never die, not how she had planted herself in his soul. Even as he crushed the bloom, a sprout would develop beneath his heel. Her love would be renewed until its Source absorbed it back into Himself. The Source would never die.
Still, he wanted none of it. Perhaps it was worth the sacrifice, but he would rather sacrifice love itself. Less pain that way.
No, she was not dead, but he was. Presented with the chance at life once again, he turned his back and grasped at the familiar immorality. He was always trying to forget.
But it was he who would be forgotten.