You asked me one evening where sun was bleeding and blood orange stained the horizon, “what flower do you want to plant?” A soft smile ghosting on your lips; my heart caught up in the throat and my lungs constricted at the parched air which I suspected the oxygen was lacking. I listened to the chirping birds (instead of my own deafening heartbeats) which on their way back home in the sky, singing the symphony that I couldn’t understand --so, I steered my eyes back to your deep brown cosmos filled with thousand constellations that I couldn’t comprehend.

In a pretty string, the small amount of shade violet blue, the flowers with yellow eyes you hold, were breathtakingly beautiful. I let my inner goddess dance merrily in a fantasy I build, where the wall was filled with balmy breeze of delight, the stage was the puffy cloud nine and you are the innumerable of colors that blazed me with unsullied bliss.

Hopefulness is a tenuous fixation. It was feeble and oftentimes distorted of the tremulous confidence we had over things, even the small, petty little things.

D