On the loneliest grass field, we stood before the three-feet monster holding its last eye. As we gathered our blooming smiles, it blinked to capture our new memory. The skies dipped its head to cover its light clouds; the sun did some little pirouettes to send its glow to us. In a demon-filled promised land, we rose.
We took the picture from its mouth before you promised we would become the roots of the tall trees near the field. We would kiss with lingering touches and breathe with the remains of heat. If others had not yet found their reason to live, we would, if we had not yet. If they had died within the hands of their other, we would not—we would be the evidence of living in the given lives.
But the picture caught the fires of tomorrow until it turned into the crushed bones of the present.
We got older without aging. We met death the same way we met ourselves. We coined the idea of departure from stagnation. I thought we would lay down on the moist green grasses to watch the doves sing our tunes; instead, we slept throughout the day to stay in the unrevealed darkness of our souls.
In a slow etiquette, we faced our ghosts; the empty spaces of our eyeholes.
You made me lose hope in a hopeless situation.
WORD COUNT: 170
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