Crystalline teardrops fall from the sky, soft and brisk. It stings a little, yet is comforting. I guess I am not the only one.
Against the glass they are truthful, and like the morning dew they are delicate. Those glittering shards strike with such impact, yet appear so weak.
The thing about water is that it’s never what it seems: one drop can be easily swept away, but many bring an undeniable force. I guess all beautiful things are a danger in disguise.
“Good morning!”
In the frenzied and boisterous space, there lies a distinct coldness.
The first thing I can register is the muffled sound of traffic — the way it clashes and groans, full of frustration — impatient. The scent of gasoline lingers in open air, as florals and musks occasionally drift by over notes of moist acidity. The chaotic arrangement of fast and slow footsteps create an uncomfortable disharmony as figures pass by — blurred into smoke.
Indistinguishable chatter and laughter ring, overtaken constantly by another’s. Orange shirt, navy pants, or baby-pink shoes — it all fades into a blur of haze.
I look up: a vast sea of grey — ominous. Little droplets form a pattern on the ground, one by one, as they gradually start to overlap. Second by second, they move faster and faster — stronger and harder. Soon, a harsh rhythm plays, like the sound of soldiers marching in collection.
The wind breeze blows cold and tentative, as if holding a secret.
A shadow looms over as everything turns black.
Kaboom! Then, there was a streak of light. It flashes by — blinding;
and amongst the sudden white, I see him.
Water bounces off the bus-stop shelter as it rolls down the edge. A drop falls upon his outstretched hands, slender and fair, adorned with neatly-trimmed, pink nails. His ink-dark hair glistens, falling over his eyes, as he raises his head and looks above. Round umber eyes slightly widen, as the curtain of eyelashes quiver and flutter close. A wash of carnation, like watercolor, is drawn onto his porcelain skin, as supple blush lips curve into a soft smile.
Beautiful.
Light cascades over him, and the skittering notes slow, as if they have tired. The sun illuminates those eyes to a caramelized amber shade for just a split second, as they catch mine — just for a split second. It skips a beat.
A mellow breeze caresses his raven locks as it passes by, bringing a clear, grassy aroma — pure and unmasked.
I turn my eyes away.
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter: the rhythmic sound plays — lightly, gently, and never-changing.
The boundless blue skies mingle with wisps of pearl, as do red, yellow, and lilac petals frolic with dew. Jade leaves on top of dark mahogany branches rustle, and fresh green strands dance rooted in cedar ground.
A sole vermilion bud blooms above the rest, like a phoenix rising from its ashes — strong, radiant, and breathtaking.
Rays of gold: the sun-kissed world after shines;
I take a deep breath.
Nostalgia: how the earthy scent of watered soil envelops one into kind warmth.
I close my eyes, and everything but peace disappears.
“Ce’st la vie en rose”.
There is a saying: ‘the calm before the storm’, when everything is serene, only for chaos to reign in succession;
but what about after?
Diamond droplets sit still, as if time has stopped — frozen. It tickles, as a single fragile bead latches onto and rolls along tender skin. I am captivated.
The thing about beauty is that she doesn’t want to be possessed. She hides in between the cracks and seams of the unexpected;
and if you do find her, she runs.
I guess, afterall, the enchanting enigma of a rose is not without its thorns.
We live — breathe. A world so fast and cruel. A world of moments, unforgotten — fleeting.
Running, forgetting to slow down.
Seeking, forgetting to look around.
Slow down, look around.
