What He Left.
There’s something bitter left in every possibility that doesn’t quite come through.
I used to love the springtime. In the little village of Harket, situated in the middle of nowhere, we would watch the Bougainvilleas bloom on the exterior of houses, and the wisteria shadow our porches, and upon the neglected rails of the train tracks that connect our forgotten world to the rest of England bloomed roses that feared very little for the possibility that one day, maybe, a strayed soul would ever dream of giving the tracks their purpose, and grace us with a fresh face. It’s here that I fell in love with the springtime. Upon the carless streets of cobblestone and overgrowth, I learnt to wander wistfully with the heartache of a man I had lost in the latter days of March, just as the flowers started to bloom. It was when he first appeared did the roses have any reason to fret- yet it was I who should have worried, and saw the signs, and paid attention to what the wallflowers had to say, as the most beautiful part of this hidden little village disappeared from my arms and into the wind.
