Forget me not

They grow entangled with his name, engraved in the cold stone. Pure blue against pure white, the characters in black scribed, Song Minho. A tear falls down, watering them all – he sings to them, remembering everything that went wrong, all the memories he holds close, drops staining his cheeks with luminescent grooves, contrasting with the ghostly of his features, so pale, so skinny, the same blue that colours the little flowers shadows his eyes.

 He coughs, bending, his hands on the grave that keeps his bones. From his parted lips a lonely flower swirls, dancing through space until reaching the grass, until blending with the other that are just the same; it hurt.

It hurt feeling them blooming inside, taking away the place that belonged to him – but when they fall he feels it, like a kiss on his lips that is entirely a reminiscence of him, that taste just like him. – He breathes in puffs of shaking air, his eyes wet and his skin ashamed, he doesn’t care – not when the name under his palm belongs to the one he loved, the one that was taken away.

Jinwoo was there, holding his hand; he can hear his voice, reassuring – when the night comes but he can’t sleep, not even after another empty bottle of beer, not even when he is exhausted and tired, totally wasted, his words linger to the sky “it’s time to let him go”. Was he the one holding on? He collapsed, the ground hard under his knees, he tries to give up – he can’t; Minho pushed his way always, he achieved all he wanted due to hard work and talent and passion and now it’s all gone but he keeps on trying, keeps living because surrender is not an option, not when he remembers Minho, his laugh, the drawings that were always about him (random sketches and doodles that talked about their love, about how true his sentiments were).

It lies in the palm of his hand; navy and small, smelling like tears and little recollections, the speak the language of love; they mean forever, an everlasting memory – and that’s what he is for Seungyoon, someone he holds into it dear and tight, someone who he won’t ever release (he lives in his heart since the start, he will carry him by his side until the day he dies). He caresses them; the petals are soft and smooth, like Minho’s skin before it lost all the warmth, before turning pale and sick, cold even under the summer light. He remembers all the kisses they shared, all the words interchanged, the way he held his hands in his, reassuring, calming, lovingly. He adored him so much sometimes it was embarrassing – Seunghoon teasing them for being lovebirds, always singing their affection, always lost into each other eyes. He wants to come back to that time when his hyung laughed at them; he hasn’t been completed since that day when Minho died, fingers interlaced, cold spreading, reaching his chest, freezing it as it has frozen Minho’s forever. He knew it was coming, that it was a matter of time – that he was sick, but that didn’t change it, it didn’t make it any easier. His tears were painted in blue, the same colour as the flowers he is growing now – Jinwoo sighs and tells him they are myositis (forget me not, as if he could ever forget the one they are growing for).