Pink Hydrangea

The sleepy town that sits beside that river. Hushed and lulled by summer breeze. Warm and mist. Glistens on the faces of youthful blooms. Who wait patiently. To be plucked by a frivolous boy. And gently placed behind the ear of a longing, sad girl.

The freckles on his hand are copper under sunbeams. And she covers her coy smile. A pink hydrangea behind her ear, wet with staining words.
"Don't leave me. Don't go into the river."
Bold and dripping from the veiny petals, and onto where her skin is warm from her beating heart. But she is blinded by the light in his eyes. Milk and pearls and fire. And deafened by her racing thoughts. Whirlwind and she is spinning in circles. Like the cinnamon curls in her hair that he can't seem to untangle his fingers from. She'll never quite untangle him from her.

She's never felt so much before. But she'll feel numb from the cold when the river drifts her over to the estuary. Where she is no longer seen. She is no longer significant. But rather ordinary. Unseen in such vastness. She'll feel numb. And no one will read her words by the light of the moon. Not even him.

There is a river that runs along the center of my heart. With every breath, the wind blows, and a current carries my thoughts downstream. They pool at the river bank. Pile and cake to the sides with mud. I have no choice but to face it. There is you. Your face shimmering and emerging from the sludge. Eyes closed because you are no longer a reality. Your hand spreads like a star over aging black leaves. And a pink hydrangea flickers like a mirage between your fingers. But I took another way. Followed a separate current. We never would've worked anyway, I think, as another current comes and carries you under and away. Further down the stream until you resurface again another day. But your hand, spread like a star, has left an imprint in the bank next to where I stand. And I cry because I wonder which channel really called to me. The wind only blows one way now. And I can't turn back. Only go further into the path I've already taken. The river crowns me with foam and tumultuous sounds. And dumps me into the estuary, where I spread like a star in the moonlit ocean. And I hope to someday be found. And I hope that someday you'll read my words by the lights of the moon. Message spilled out of a bottle. And I hope that someday you'll find me.

...We've gotten so used to being happiest in our dreams. But like a mime, I'm stuck inside the nonexistent...