It once ran strong - coursing, pulsating, breathing, alive through his veins - the steady pulse only quickened by the occasional brush of her arm against his. She always pulled away sharply, as roses bloomed at her cheeks. It was his favorite picture of her.
They only had one song, but it didn't seem to matter. They could always change the words, or perhaps discover a delightful harmony. If he held her hand, she would fold secrets of creation into them - honest love notes written in simplicity. They were inspiring, refreshing, wide-eyed and beautiful - just like her.
And as the first flakes of snow boldly announced Winter's imminent arrival, his lips became acquainted with hers beneath a canopy of trees - naked branches their only witnesses.
She would always think with her heart, but rationale was neither his forte. So they fell fast, blind but laughing, his callused fingers wrapped tightly around her delicate own, forgetting to remember sometimes fate holds an ending other than "happily ever after".
...
It runs thick, like oil - black, like tar. Tendrils of smoke form dirty clouds, choking the roses in her blushing cheeks - the picture once held so dear, now smudged and blackened to unrecognizable. Her tears carve hesitant paths through the muddy grey, but they fall mute, directionless. The path through the glass is old and marked with endless journeys, all incomplete, their explorers whispering final prayers as hope bleeds into the thirsty, cracked earth.
But she desires naked branches and heart-shaped leaves. Blushing ambitions and a single soundtrack to usher in sleep. She wishes for his blood to run clear, a pulsing river through his veins - the sound, a rushing waterfall carving assured paths through mountains.
Then: she will take his hand, fade scars with a kiss. And they will find a new song to sing - their harmony, a waterfall.
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