Gray rose

“Where is it?’

She flutters, lifting his reluctant hand towards her bleeding face. The room was gray, and the darkness of it obscured the crude features of her face. She stared deeply and curiously into his watery eyes, slowly gracing down on his trembling lips. All she asked of him was the truth, the truth that probably isn’t there. So much of her hurts and desires to know it. She wanted it to come from him. And she ached for him to tell her, tell her everything that would make her feel the it. So she’d know it had been there.

`I dont see it… I cant touch it… It isn’t there, ’

He would not answer, for he was too guilty to say a word. He could not bear the cowardice and the fear of letting her hate him. For so much of him already hates the spoils of his own weakness. He could hardly stand it, much the thought of her remembering him like the puny yellow thing that he was. Her faint sobs gashed his ears, that look on her face maimed him senseless. He stared back at her, not yielding at the traces of tears on his ruddy cheeks.

“I cant feel it… Why cant I feel it?!’

Her clasp on his tremulous hand was tightened to a grip. The sobs she had been stifling to a moaning weep.

“Where… is this … love… you talk about, ’

He pulled away the hands that clutched his tightly, stood up and ambled slowly away… disappearing into the gray.

End.

You are free to draw your own conclusions as to what happened here, and why.
*lol*
- - - -

I talked to someone rather, lets say, willing to listen, today. He admitted he fancied the description I have on love. I suppose it was because he just did not have one of his own, so he voluntarily preferred mine. Anyways, when I asked him… what he thought of love. He retorted that he believed it just comes and goes, and that becomes consequential to his not looking for it. Why I did not agree that he believed that, is because he lacked conviction. He could not explain solidly why he thought so, and he just simply went with that hackneyed defense of someone not having their own inference on this matter, he supposed;

`Love cannot be described.’ Or something of that line.

And I thought, yes it can be described. You can put it to words if you have felt it, and if you desired to explain it, you can. For love comes at you always in a different form and of distinct level, and each description you make of it would be right. Because that is how you felt it. That is how the experience made you remember it to be. Though, he was right about, `Its not the same with each of us.

He asked me, if I have ever been… in love.
I answered sincerely that I have sadly not, though I have liked someone very much.
And he said,
`That is why you wont understand what I meant.

But I do. I think I do.
Albeit it isn’t really an equivocal supposition. I have a rough idea, but enough to lead me somewhere. I know that it is special, but I do not know just how special. I will though, when the time comes.

He contrasted me on how I believed love is just a lucky accident, well some are unlucky… bottom line, it is an accident. (refer to post below). And how randomness plays a big role in it. That haphazardously we choose and decide whom to fall head over heels with.

Then I had to go, so we were not really able to disclose the discussion properly.

- - - -

I could not believe how Jean( one of my best buds) has grown to be quite dedicated to her major. A complete incongruity to myself. When I quizzed her about which family this and that flower belongs to, she was able to hand me an accurate response. My point is… she sort of told me which my favorite flower (which is a rose, rather common eh? Bah, I don’t care… I like it) belongs to, Rosacaea.

I liked that flower… because that of its prickly thorns, it still manages to be beautiful.

--oOo--