Calendula Sunrise
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You are, to me, as a calendula sunrise is to the soul.
Their discarded petals brush against my arms as I breathe in deeply, and the scent of summer fills every corner of my lungs. Honeysuckle topnotes grace the air, floating by on the early evening breeze. The smell is bittersweet; it reminds me of lying here with you as your fingers interlaced with my own, the sun setting low on the horizon. You would always say that if I lay here for long enough I would lose my grip on reality, but the gentle buzz of worker bees tethers me to the real world; keeps me here in my garden of vibrant oranges and sunshine yellows. Soon, there will be little more than a group of feeble-looking deadheads standing tall, matted with the dirt from whence they came – they are not unlike you and I. Soon, the scents of summer evenings will morph into the sharp sting of winter, when the ground will become hard and unyielding and by then, my calendula sunrise will fade into the darkness as the sun sets.
And yes, you are to me as a calendula sunrise is to the soul. Your vibrancy is overwhelming to begin with, and as you grow into something great I wish nothing more than to eagerly lap up your presence just as I do here, lying amongst the dying flowers. And just as their reign is not eternal, your appeal will soon fade. These flowers will eventually die, and your hold on me will wilt with them; you will become as hard and unyielding as the frostbitten ground from which a garden of summer flowers once grew.
But, even for a second, you shine as brightly as the sunrise and for me, that is enough.
Their discarded petals brush against my arms as I breathe in deeply, and the scent of summer fills every corner of my lungs. Honeysuckle topnotes grace the air, floating by on the early evening breeze. The smell is bittersweet; it reminds me of lying here with you as your fingers interlaced with my own, the sun setting low on the horizon. You would always say that if I lay here for long enough I would lose my grip on reality, but the gentle buzz of worker bees tethers me to the real world; keeps me here in my garden of vibrant oranges and sunshine yellows. Soon, there will be little more than a group of feeble-looking deadheads standing tall, matted with the dirt from whence they came – they are not unlike you and I. Soon, the scents of summer evenings will morph into the sharp sting of winter, when the ground will become hard and unyielding and by then, my calendula sunrise will fade into the darkness as the sun sets.
And yes, you are to me as a calendula sunrise is to the soul. Your vibrancy is overwhelming to begin with, and as you grow into something great I wish nothing more than to eagerly lap up your presence just as I do here, lying amongst the dying flowers. And just as their reign is not eternal, your appeal will soon fade. These flowers will eventually die, and your hold on me will wilt with them; you will become as hard and unyielding as the frostbitten ground from which a garden of summer flowers once grew.
But, even for a second, you shine as brightly as the sunrise and for me, that is enough.