The Pressed Rose

I brought for her a rose.

She was already waiting by the cafe. Wearing a pleasing blue and a pleasant smile. The very embodiment of idyllic charm. She saw the rose and with a coy blush gracefully accepted.

It had been four years now. Two as friends, and two as significant other. And we went through the entire ritual of discovering the charm and thrill of the other’s presence, persona and personality. It was a healthy relationship, constructive and conducive. But no more.

Love, that potent potion with its perks and pain, while still flamed ablaze, it ceased to be a pleasure. We fought. Hurt. Criticised. Though unfailingly sought for the other to lay balm to the wounds we inflicted. The longing for the other remained.

Over seasons, it morphed to the ferocity of a habit. A habit, tenacious and temerarious, veiling the supple tenderness of love. Love which relegated to the backstage, the underbelly of our hearts. Which we convinced selves, is a thing of past.  We contrived that love need be better. And stated in a stately air, love isn’t the sole contender of mans’ fate.

With hearts’ heavy with banked affection, teary eyed, we parted. She drove the other way, on a long drive, to calm her nerve, while I sat by a lake to look at the water glimmer, and in quiet solitude, relive her memory.

2530504-dried-red-rose-on-an-open-old-bookIt’s been not too long, just a season since. The void still unfilled, the heart still unhealed. Words have logged up unspoken, moments unshared, memories withheld in a clenched fist, seeking her open palm, her gentle smile, her loving gaze. Things of past, burning bright in memory fields.

While the other side, she still once a while leaves through her diary, reading about the days together, times we laughed, smiled, held hands and walked along, and gently picks that rose pressed dry, between the pages, that still retains a faint fragrance of the love, we denied.

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