|Image source: https://suejudd.com/2016/04/11/april-macros-in-the-garden-2/|
The Dead Share no Secrets
We coiled around each other, the spindly, web-like remains of two slowly-decaying flowers, the lovemaking, more mechanical, paint-by-numbers than the singular fling of our youth some twenty-five years ago, a one-night forest fire birthed from the spark of eye-contact and glancing blushes. We both promised ourselves to another; both promises were broken once, and only once, giving into a fleeting moment, a blip in time we promised to take to our graves; a happily illicit memory of when the flap of a butterfly wing propelled us into a tangled mess.
Some twenty-five-odd years later, having lost my beloved, loyal, longtime life companion to some cruel disease that forced me watch her slowly waste away in agony, I still replayed her final days, hours, seconds. Unable to help her, I watched her life-force fade from her fingertips as I held her cooling hand. The loss was overwhelming and absent of meaning. I selfishly knew that I deserved to lose her, though when death comes, deserves have little to do with it. Our once beautiful home atrophied like a dying flower; I could still see the beauty in the bones, the spindly superstructure, but it was mostly dark, silent, empty, like me. Sometimes I cried myself to sleep, others I reached into the void, hoping to touch an anchor. And so when reaching out across the void of cybernetic technology, I found her, my spring-fling dalliance recently divorced from her partner and freed from her own promise.
Time wasn’t too unkind to either of us. Sure we’d put on a few pounds, we were a few steps slower, and had life sketched onto our faces, but that familiar spark was present, just as in the beauty of a wilting flower. I arranged our meeting at my empty, now-silent home, hoping to fill it – and myself – with, I dunno… something other than the dread of waking up alone each day.
She did not disappoint, as we splendiferously spilled onto the sofa, grandiloquently grinded on the kitchen counter, and finally wrestled urgently, leveraging our brinksmanship in the bedroom. Our corpulent copulation, our reacquainting Ragnarök rocked on into the evening, despite my neighbors’ complaints. But regardless of the urgency in which we broke ourselves upon each other’s weary wheels, we never fully recaptured the spark of our forbidden youth, nor could we fill our respective emptiness by clutching each other until muscle failure. Physical functions to fill abstract emptiness; a decadent exercise resulting in vituperative failure. We could not capture lightening in a bottle, not even if we combine fronts to create our own thunderstorm. But there’s always new lightening, isn’t there?
Ghost of dead flower
Beautiful, alluring still
You are not alone
Inspired by dVerse’ Haibun Monday #12 – Beauty in decay, but not shared there, as I kind of went off the rails on the guidelines. I couldn't tighten the haibun paragraphs any further without losing the narrative.
Go here to see more dVerse poets write to this prompt.
(Yes, I know I'm a day behind. I'll catch-up.)