The hem of his midnight black trench coat sweeps
the cherry red floor.
The window reveals bombarding rain
like missiles in a war, the drops do.
not.
stop.
His black fedora adorns his head and he steps out
Into the missile fire.
His coat hides blood red roses, thorns
stabbing the newspaper they’re wrapped in.
Thunderous drumming rain pounds the sidewalk
Not pausing for a single
Breath.
Each drop is an explosion on the pavement
boom.boom.boom.
boom.boom.boom.
Some water jerks back as it slams the pavement. Rejected then falling into place.
He pushes through the descending H2O only to meet more icy rain that stains his face in harsh
cold
strokes.
He glances up, facing the wrath of the downpour only to be greeted with
black iron gates. A gothic cross-placed in the center, surrounded by swirling, twirling, fierce coal-colored metal.
His hand grazes the iron.
It is arctic.
It is soaked.
It is unforgiving.
It is of deaths nature.
He lingers for a moment, catching his breath.
He has not been running nor exerting himself, he simply needs time.
A moment to believe she is alive in him.
in his beating heart.
His fingers go numb from the thorns pressing into them, like novacane to a bad toothache. But it does not help. It does not ease the pain. It does not distract.
He is focused. His hurt thrives.
His feet carry him past the colorless trees, their beauty rotting on the ground underneath him like browning banana peels, yellow and spotted brown.
The wind picks up and carries the heavy scent of the roses up through his jacket and teases his nose with the beauty of floral purity.
The edge of the grass disappears as the storm reveals the mud underneath.
His reflective, dark dress shoes dip into the mess.
Marble granite. Grey. With hints of stormy sea blue.
The rectangular stone beams out of the mud.
Tall. Proud.
Beautiful.
Just. Like. Her.
Engraved roses on the border. Intricate stems. Vines.
Confusing twists. Simple beauty.
He sits. Disregarding the mud that will clot on his jet-black jacket.
He watches. One single little raindrop hit the rose. Fast yet delicately.
Swimming through the marble,
It follows the engraved vine.
Loop de loop.
Loop de loop.
And then it falls off the tip of the stem to the base of the headstone and joins its
Brothers and sisters,
Gleaming over that marble granite.
His attention turns to the words.
Hannah Rose Gordon
March 2, 1995-February 5, 2023
“One person’s craziness is another person’s reality-Tim Burton”
She was crazy.
But good crazy.
He loved her.
The roses make their home in the mud, peering up at her beautiful name stuck in that grey-blue marble granite.
The missile-like rain, still pounding away.
He sits. He cries. Again.
He whispers.
I love you.
The wind is his messenger.
His hair flies back in the breeze and as the gust whirls around his ear, he can hear the faint whisper.
I love you too.
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