The Last Kiss

The shadows on the walls, crept silently towards the velvet, which laid torn across the old wooden floors. Unnoticed as a season's death, drifted out through the cracks and doors. A black sunrise, in a home plagued by a chilling echo. The sounds of a choir lost in sorrow, resonated through ears so delicate. Breaking the sanity of every insects as they fled into the rotting corpses of the once embraced. The loveless lovers rested in wait. The holes in the sheets where she once laid, will always be the constant reminder that all in time, decays. The crucifying memories that bleed through wet eyes, resounding in the empty rooms. A still life painting of cracked faces, across a suicide. Will she ever once again, smile? He slept in her arms, so pale, cold. He awoke with his breath materialized. He cuddle close with all she had left to offer; the numbness that caressed her frosted lips; Achromatic. It was winter, and the snow had begun to fall ever so gently, every flake in a graceful sway fell upon his cheek. The window was cracked open. "Must have been the wind." He said, "Simply, the wind." He never left his beloved wife alone and the window remained open. For days, and weeks, he lasted through the bitter cruelty of the frost bitten sun. In that time, he also witnessed a purple flower bloom, in laces of such pulchritude from beneath the floor. Amazed he stretched out his arm to grasp the stem...Suddenly, he stopped. He had led his wife to take her own life. Why now take the life of something so beautiful? He closed his eyes, and went into a deep slumber and dreamed. Dreams of the past, with his beautiful wife, dancing in the fields of violets. "That's what it was." he thought, "the flower, it was a violet." He woke from his haunting reverie to look to the flower. Merely to find it was gone. In a sadden breath, he exhaled and turned to his wife, only within his hollow calm, to redeem, the absence she had once again, left him in. But how!? He struggled to get up entwined within the sheets. He looked to the window and in awe, there she was, standing before him. She walked slowly towards the bed as he gazed into her once again gleaming eyes. In such elegance, wearing the antiqued wedding dress, ever so immaculate, she sat next to him as he remained enthralled. She kissed him, as he started to cry. She held him...As he died with a shattered glaciated heart, within her arms. The same way she had at one time, in his. "It was never your fault." She whispered softly to him. And the flower withered in her hands, as she started to writhe and fade, as the petals turned pale and cold. As her body would emulate, all which is frail, and old...In a bloom, as such his pulse ever was, the wilted petals fell apart. Cherished, these somber caresses evermore within long lost memories, soon to be forgotten, will diminish...We live, we love, and we are abandoned through life. But isn't it all worth the while? The destination is not the journey in itself, that is simply the ending. The story, is within the in between. Death, by fate has for each of our destinations, been set. So live, love, laugh and cry, and at every sun rise breathe so you may exhale, or suffocate, at every sun set, yet to come. Let these moments take your breath away.