The pallid man sat upon the lonely rocks, counting the stars in the sky to attempt to imagine them as the object he held. A tulip, with the fewest petals still intact. One of them, plucked from his backyard and held close to his face, to breathe the scent of it. He imagined his wife of the stem to her form, and its stigma her gentle face.
He held the poor thing close, steering his neck like a galley above the waves, to see a grave.
He still holds the poor thing close, even upon this day when he can imagine the moon, descending tears like pollen upon his nose.
When he is, he weeps a moon’s shape upon his cheek, so that it may reach his lap. It is where one petal has loosened itself from the tulip’s sepal, and bled a course through the air to his legs. Covered over, they are, by a towel, laid there to wipe this tulip down ever-so gently.
He raises the tulip by its stem, as though he were to raise his once-living wife by her waist, in a dance of merriment.
Lovely and lovely. Her breath, scented like the tulip’s petals, as though that towel, and the fragrance, could be like him raising his departed wife from a bath. What a kiss he lays upon the stigma. Each remaining petal, so alike her cheeks, and he kisses the individual ones.
It gleams, this tulip, in the gentle moon’s rays that come to sprout themselves downwards, and blanket both the tulips and this man’s face with an immaculate hue.
But, all too well, this man knows his heart, knows his pain for how eternal it seems, down in the deepest puddles where his tears have melted from his eyes. Like candles, they were lit, for the wax to come descending to form these small pockets of fluid, yet they are as lakes to him. And, like lakes, not oceans, candles are still held to see a view of a reflection in the surface. He can see beyond to the other end, where a sound is called out from his lips. It is where water has collected, where a gleam glows from his irises, and a falsified fire makes the world fall from him.
Though, he sits upon the shore of an ocean, a small cottage behind him, a grave for his deceased wife to the left of it. He sits there, making lakes at his feet, with a tulip in hand, the ocean before him to share in the making of new bodies of water.