The ones growing from the damp black earth below me are beautiful. They’re violet, the type of color if I stared at just long enough I could lose myself in. I always loved violet. It reminds me of strange dreams and bad dancing and things that don’t matter to you now. Things that did matter.
Now, as I’m running my dirt stained fingers across the faded inscription, I feel more alone than I ever have. Once, I thought I felt the crumbling rock pulse under my touch, but the only thing beating in this dead city was my heart, I tied to this body and you to the decaying stone at your bedside.
Free of these vacant people in their crowded homes and the open palms you never reached.Or, how it felt leaving people that made you feel like art and smokestack memories of impossible nights that made you feel infinite. Did you mourn them as they mourned you? Maybe you left with less regard and more finality, some dramatic exit. The performance you never auditioned for.
Or, it was nothing.
Just holding on with white knuckles for so long, and finally letting go.
Someone once told me we are made of stars. Fragments of dust and far away galaxies behind the freckles and our dreams and everything that makes us human.
I like to think your soul is home, with the constellations watching these flowers grow from what you gave to this earth.