Headstones adorned with orchids and tulips, planted fields of violets and roses to accompany the monuments of my loss. Look at how beautifully I have decorated my pain. It only hurts when I look at it.

Simply put, she is golden hour manifest, sunshine at its softest, most gentle, loving rays of light in their most beautiful state.

They had parted the night before, but her perfume lingered in the car the next morning, and a deep breath of the remnants of the previous night's joy was enough to soothe his weary soul. Memories of laughter and the ghost of a smile danced in the empty passenger seat, while the scent of sandalwood and hope guided him onward. The last vestiges of vanilla, and peace, began to fade away as he reached his destination, and a new passenger. Wildly flinging the door open, hastily heaving himself into the car, the new passenger arrived and with him, a new set of sensations as companions on this journey forward. An oppressive humidity and the noxious breath of stale cigarettes washed over the face of the weary driver, choked away the last glimmer of gladness, and the journey from joy to melancholy was now complete.

Staring into the looking glass, bruised and broken after another lofty fall from grace. Streams of blood to contour my helpless, wounded face. I must remind myself once again that these wings were not made to fly so close to the sun.

The familiar chill of a Sunday in December, sweaters and solitude, hanging ornaments for ghosts, each colder than the last, frigid reminders of what it means to be alone.

It has been said that when we are overcome with sadness without cause, without reason, it is because we have been selected, given the honor of mourning the death of a stranger. To all of my strangers, I have wept for you, my heart has ached for you, I have grieved your loss, I have loved every one of your souls, and I pray that you find peace.

A silent Sunday afternoon, the breath of melancholy in the air, mourning the loss of futures never to be.

There is something solemn in the air today. Autumn nears, so now I must die again. Fear not, for I will return with the lilacs that restore my life in May, but for now, I beg, leave me where I lay, beneath the leaves so this body may join them amongst the autumn decay.

I should like to meet whosoever thought it wise to ravage my garden, to tear it up, root and stem. This gift of agony that they have given me, I would like to return it in kind, and watch along as pain befalls them.

I'm not even sure how long you've been gone, but it's been a while since I lost you. But I walked outside today, looked up, and the sky was still blue. Then I looked a bit more and I noticed that the flowers still bloom. The birds are still singing and spring still feels new, the world is still turning and as silly as it sounds, life is beautiful without you, and I'm okay with that now.

Oh, how I would love to write about her, but I can scarcely find the words. For she is poetry in a language that I haven't yet learned, some distant tongue that didn't exist until she came to be. All I know is that if I were Icarus, and she the sun, I would take to the skies and soar to meet her even if it meant the downfall of me.

There is no poetry in suffering; to withstand pain does not make one divine. There is no virtue to be found in agony, only the distress that it leaves behind. But I have discovered lyrics in a kiss, verses in a bottle of wine, words bathed in rosewater and honey in the corners of your heart that only I can find.