Work Text:
My camellia, I come to water your garden once again.
I find myself often sorrowful, as if the rain fell upon my aimless soul before your petals.
Do my sorrows suffice forgiveness? Teary eyes, yet clear only for your rot. Your golden petals crisp brown under burning light; vibrant red as scarlet as blood. Your lifeblood, my camellia, my will. Breathing air and standing upon the moistened soil are all we share, as our love was divided that day. Good-bye.
Good-bye. If I continue to weep, will I, as well, rot away like you? It has been many nights since your first absence. Sleepless, indeed. Though your hatred for me peaked and you declared your parting, I continue to write to that gentle soul. Such are these marks of ink.
You were once fond of fireworks, my camellia — if I could show you them again I would. But the risk of fire to destroy all that I have left outweighs my tender love and care at the cost of your selfish displeasure. Good-bye.
My camellia, bound to soil, do you see clouds below? The meadows defy the line between us. Heed my wonder: will I see you in the flowers again, or must I depend on shapes formed by vapour? Do you fly above my hopes or rest below my dreams? You don your wings, but rotted buds return to Earth not sky. I think too much, my camellia — soothe my weary mind once more, will you?
I lie on the ground, my form against your soil, eyes to the clouds — Yes, I am bound to see you again. The very buds you bloomed shine brighter than sunlight; a cruel reminder of the smile I once knew, that is, it is cruel I could not see last. Alas, I know, blood seeps in the soil as it does the flesh, my camellia. Is it why the flora flourishes, in remembrance of the light of your wonder before tragedy dulled your soul? I have missed your light and warmth more than the sun can provide me, so I return to my holed-up life except for you — I have nothing else to dedicate such a desolate existence to. I have paid many visits to you (I am assured it has come to fatigue your rested spirit by now, my camellia, but yield my selfish indulgence.) Your sentiment is but all to keep me alive although you have rotted away from my grasp. Offerings are to be wasted to time and the wind; hence I refrain. My arrival is irritable, I know well. Good-bye.
Yes, my camellia... I will wait for the weather to grace me an opportune moment to join your soil at last.