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Crematorium


Notes

His lips press gently against yours, the scent of orchids and dried dates wafting into the air. Fingers entwined in yours, he guides you behind the flourishing viridian of the flower garden, eyes flickering and dancing with melting sun. It illuminates you both in the golden youth of summer, skin bathed and washed in amber. You feel alive.

But all things must come into an end, and the soft touch of mouth fades to tarnished marble, the scent of age old parchment leaving you hollow. Warm eyes turned to cracked stone. You touch his cheek, tracing over familiar laugh lines you cannot help but love, over stress lines you cannot forget.

This is not what you remembered, but you feel at home all the same.

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art by: http://palomawool.com/


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