Work Text:
though my bones are hollow and feeble with decay,
worn and weary,
rusted and ragged,
i will wait for you, my love, in 1862
you will not remember me, and yet
i will wait
"for what?" a lonely spirit once asked me, green eyes as wide as the sparkling moon. though, i know he will never understand. he will never understand why i mourn so deeply, feel so harshly until it feels as if my chest will burst and my eyes will melt alongside the tears forever imprinted on my cheeks.
but, i will say, "for her," all the while i continue smiling and gazing. forever waiting in 1862.
just for you, i will wait
where once sweet dew we suckled from cherry blossoms has now grown acrid from the twisted cherry tree,
nurtured by dishonest hands.
for it was those hands who picked me up,
smothered me until air was but a mere, distant illusion; light and dreamy.
those hands that buried me deep,
covered me up.
left me so that the darkness could pick me apart
agonizingly slow,
so that each piece,
piece
by piece
by piece
drove me mad.
the hands that left me in my blue gown,
which has since then torn and aged; deteriorated against my flesh,
just like the purity that was once ours
in 1862.
and yet, those hands--i am grateful for them,
as they left you to live on without me, remembering the sunlight dappling our soft, untouched skin through the pink blossoms.
though you live on, reborn again
and again
and again,
without me,
i am not bitter; i could never be.
not at you, with your wild blond hair,
spiky and unable to be tamed
just like your fiery passion that left me breathless each time i had the honor to unravel you and make you reveal yourself to me.
i will wait for you, in 1862, because, while the dew was sweet,
and the sunlight warm,
my greatest treasure...
was you.
for you, i will wait, my mismatched eyes never leaving your silken red dresses or your bright ruby eyes,
hands so dainty that i fear they will snap if held in my own.
for you, i will always be waiting, just for the sliver of a chance that,
one day,
you and i will journey together once more
in the summertime sun,
of 1862.