To Bonaparta: “You Always run. From ruin, from salvation. You run in equal measures from pain and pleasure. The hardest I’ve seen you move away though, was from both your own emotions. Would you also run, if I loved you?“
From: Rose 🌹.
It was foolish to leave flowers for a ghost.
The day was something out of a fairytale book. The sun was bright and high in the sky. The gentle breeze carried the scent of Black Forest Cake left on the windowsill and the children’s laughter painted the cobblestone streets with its warmth.
He entered the coffee shop, sharing a soft smile to the hostess; knowing he didn’t need to be lead to his typical seat next to the towering glass window. He had been stopped a few times before reaching his destination. The typical daily idle banter from the older folk, all of them keen and desperate for a conversation - in human interaction.
And he embraced their need, diligently merely out of habit. Ever so inviting was of his visage; with his kind smile and delicate voice that soothed their need. He gave life to their meek pursuit for connection; addressing them by their first names - watching their faces light up with glee that he remembered them so personally.
A light but firm hand over the shoulder, a swift nod to the head as he smiled and reminded them to take care today on their anniversary. He observed how fast their expressions went from shocked to pure joy. The pair clasped their hands together in response and coughed out a reply,
“My - I can’t believe you remembered!”
Of course he remembered.
He always remembered everything.
Finally, at the table, a bit of his real self became slipping out. That once proud smile fell flat into a straight line. His shoulders sank, the letter in his hand subtly trembling with the storm of emotions it provoked. The tender words etched upon the paper were more than a heartfelt greeting. It was a reminder of his sin - of his shame; his past beckoning for its admission. He swallowed hard, burying his feelings in an attempt to collectively and desperately, shake the memories that wanted to haunt.
He burned his eyes upon the messy cursive written in purple ink; trailing its focus to the scribble of a rose. He knew all too well, these words had been woven together in both yearning and bitter caustic. Not only because he had known her so well. But it was evident in how some parts of a word had been carved a lot harsher than others.
He read every word over and over, committing it to memory but somehow never truly letting her spoken truths and confessions sink in. Obsessively, he observed which feeling was the strongest when she wrote them.
Words like “You’re a fool.” and “ I couldn’t forget you.” were etched upon the paper with more care then she would probably ever want to admit. It twisted him inside but the outside, he appeared unmoved like stone.
“ What is it like trying to hold a delicate flower with hands that turn everything they touch into ash? “
She mocked.
She exposed.
and like the fool that he was, he tried to piece together a reply in his mind as if he would commit them to paper, speak them aloud and share it with her.
It was true, everything he touched burned and the fires he started couldn’t be extinguished.
But he was always careful with her.
As careful as he could ever afford to be.
With his past in his hands, he dared to tear up her letter and leave it to the wind to carry it away. There was more than second thoughts. But he was tired of running, of living this façade. Instead, he kept the proof of his existence close, tucked away from prying eyes, in the inner breast pocket.