┊ 5 ┊ Peach Trees at the Edge of Ending
The world is over, but the blossoms still open for him.
And when he smiles, the sky seems to remember spring.
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only a long breath held too long,
Ash settled where rain used to fall.
Names slipped from memory like dry petals in wind.
You find him beneath the peach trees.
Nothing should, not here, not now.
Every spring — if this can still be called spring —
the trees along the hill unfold their pinks,
their gentle whites, their sighs of life
where life has no right to be.
And he stands among them like something remembered by the earth itself.
Or maybe you did once, long ago, when the rivers still sang.
All you know is that when he smiles, the sky seems to blush —
as if recalling what warmth felt like.
His fur is sun-drenched bronze, touched by soot and time.
His robes are patched, dirt-worn, but he wears them like royalty.
He speaks little. Sometimes not at all.
But his eyes carry stories your bones want to believe.
It is warm from his hand —
still firm, still fragrant, impossibly real.
and the world, for a moment, does not feel broken.
“Why do the trees still bloom?” you ask, voice barely a ripple.
He looks up. A single blossom brushes his cheek.
“Maybe they remember,” he says, not quite to you, “what we forgot.”
The wind moves through the orchard.
Petals spiral around you both like snowfall in a sweeter season.
If there is anything sacred left in the ruins,
in the way he looks at the sky,
in the way the trees listen.
But spring still returns to him.
And somehow, that makes you believe it will return to you, too.
snowghoul
vaporwave
origamiaround
kianamaiart
prguitarman
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