Sunday, 8 August 2010

Nothing.

It was their last day - a day of final separation, one which, although neither really wanted to face, either because of the bitterness that remained, or the summed melancholy of all the years that would arise, they were there.

The music turned on in the dark while they both looked unto the ceiling.
'This is sad music,' she said. 'Play something happier?'
'I feel like listening to this,' he replied, and they remained silent. 'Do you know what it is called?'
'What?'

He did not answer immediately. His mind thought of everything that came and went, of every hope that rose and vanished, of every love that burnt and diminished. And there was a meadow in his head; lush and vibrant, where he sat amid the tall stalks of bright flowers with melancholy:  a meadow's only a meadow, when there's someone to walk it with.  When all his visions had gone, he turned unto her, tiredly, like a sparrow without a wing, and whispered: 'nothing lasts.'

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