#yeah i write

It was July.

Yes, most definitely, it was July. Not August, because the leaves of August are already choosing their colour, and the landscape averts its gaze from the flowers in a hue that searches for a cool gust that is to come. And the flowers avert their eyes, too, because it hurts to watch a masterpiece lose the lustre it had but two, three days ago. The gaze that they devoted to each other, brightening up the both of them, the moment they thought will last forever ends and leaves them both to wither and die, with no last goodbye. And the flowers lay at the landscape's feet, the majestic, unreachable dream in the distance, being served by the loyal flowers, year by year, still the same, forever the same.

And it was not June, for June leaves are too young and reckless in their awakening. Shivering, they carefully cradle their buds to watch them come into blossom, holding their breath when field poppies burst to blood-red floret. They don't listen to the grass that hushes them in their blithe demeanour. In their abstracted manners, they are doomed to turn to face the sun when it sets, and observe the magnificent sight over the hillside. And shyly lower their stare, tentative now, of the impression they may have made. Like timid lovers, they reach in and out ever so slightly, until what once was brittle becomes ordinary, and the heart paces strong and steady where it once shuddered in excitement.

And June slowly vaults over into July.

July colours fall in place with gold for me. With richness that creeps into skin, fighting for dominance with fragrances of flowers in bloom, singing mutely into the aura of summer. But gold is plaintive. Gold is wistful. Gold holds a wish, unwitting grasp for tangible desire that seeds in but a person. Gold does not wait, though. It does not drip with sorrow the way November does. It washes over when it comes, just once, and then it's gone. Scratches like a cat, but promptly fawns upon the wound, subduing its burning sensation. Pinches like an old friend, but never comes back.

Gold fortifies red. Summertime encourages love. But a cynic, the eternal emblem of azure, ploughs through the snow on his own.

Just like so, the summer blues has come for me.

I must have drowned my sadness in a pint or two, because I found a punnet full of flowers on my doorstep the next morning. That surely was Jean Prouvaire – in the hangovers when my pillow was damp and a hollow feeling engulfed my heart, he never forgot to set the overflowing basket at my threshold.

Though I knew the purpose of the present, the meaning of its life that Prouvaire so – I had no doubt – eloquently put into a basket and brought to my door, my reaction was never one of excitement. There was a hidden message that was blinking at me from behind the petals and scent, one I have never understood. Jean Prouvaire told alien stories to the men on Earth; talked of stars to sea creatures, praised anarchy amongst the loyal men and gave eager flowers to bitter cynics. He tainted wrong with right and vice versa, and when questioned, he just said:

— C'est la vie, mon chère ami.

That was life for Jean Prouvaire. Purity burrowing its way to Hell to walk in the Devil's footsteps and hideous fruit of sin tearing down the gates to Heaven to tatter the snow-white robes of angels. For both good and bad come from origins set deeply into their opposite; for it was Lucifer who had taken the task of punishing those who disobey upon himself and it was God himself who had condemned his own creation.

Jean Prouvaire acted upon his advanced thoughts. Before each of his words, an essay could be written, putting it into context with his thinking, reasoning its stance in the sentence. But he never needed more than made sense. And the ones that were worth it, only they knew why.

In our lives, certain very strange things occur.

Coincidences and feelings we can't really explain, nor do much more than to acknowledge them, feeling remorse about finding ourselves in situations that only show their magic in memories. And that is, essentially, where magic only ever exists: in the memory of a rose that was given out of love, of a long since healed wound shared between the closest of friends, of a book that had been held close and cherished for a lifetime. Clinging onto its own triviality, it does not realize its own magic for as long as blood pumps through its veins or fingertips are pressed into its cover. A humble diamond. A clothed pearl. A selfless perfection.

And maybe it is this unawareness that draws strangers in, waking a deep astonishment they are doomed to remember for as long as they live and love. With their last breath, they will shudder with a wish for the moment that could never come true again. The moment that melted in their mind before they laid their head to rest, that lost its brightness and sharp outlines before they woke up the next morning. It will be the last thing they think of before they die, however – missing the brilliant colours of summer and missing the gullibility of their spirit. Yearning for youth, they will pass in senescence.

Many poets revel in breaking a rancorous man's crust when he meets this charm, suddenly vulnerable and aghast, struck by Amor's arrow right through the chest. As if so easy to break, they let a man of steel crumble upon the sight of something godlike. None of them ever talk of questions stuttered into a sleeping city, progressively more and more sceptical existences that implode into themselves, hearts that do not crack when they should, staying, in fact, completely indifferent to yet another strike oh so similar to the prior one.

Men like me do not gasp; men like me do not tremble before beauty. Neither did I when I saw the sun of my life lie in the valley.

At first, I was not sure whether it was a man or a woman – feminine outlines of the face underlined a soft frown that spoke of severity under their skin, tranquillity spread across a sleeping porcelain face. But I glanced at the punnet in my hand, thought of Jean Prouvaire's melancholic eyes, piercing to the bottom of my soul with virility, and his voice rang through my head as clear as day:

— Est-ce que c'est important?

No, I whispered. No, it is not, dear Jehan.

Golden threads spiraling over the vermillion coat framed this face of a stranger, who clutched a book to his chest like it could not be closer to their heart. I felt a great desire to run my hand through those locks, previously tamed by a ribbon laying nearby, but all I managed was taking a seat next to this divine figure. Sitting there on the side of beauty and on the margin of awe, I felt symbolism in my actions. Exhaling quietly for the first time, unaware of not doing so for a remarkable couple of seconds, I received no reaction from both the sleeping person and the valley – as if the grass itself held its breath in anticipation.

But for me there was no valley anymore, no grass, no flowers, no trees and no breeze chilling me, because the sun had peeled itself off the sky and rests in the valley before me now. Oh, how lucky I am, to see such beauty drowse peacefully in its kingdom! Am I the moon, a jejune zealot running late to behold its contrary? Or am I merely a mortal in the presence of a God? And why does it seem to me I could bend down and kiss those ruby-red lips with ease? My palms itched with want; my brain burned with infatuation.

I could not explain to you this feeling if I tried. As if the sky had descended upon my chest, lying its weight against me. Scraping its fingernails down my back. And I can feel, I can feel the pulsation of the sky, it's life slowly dripping through the veins of void, around the stars. My heart beats without a doubt. No exception in the rhythm, never failing, never stopping. I felt as if my heart would beat forever like this. As if the image will burn itself into my eyelids and I will forever stay both paralyzed and anxious just like I did now.

This marble statue, this savage Antinous, seemed almost unreal when it stirred. Coal black lashes cracked apart, languorously waking up from sleep. And once again, I lost all will to breathe.

Under the heavy, flushed eyelids, I saw ice. Solid and unyielding, the blue eyes inquired me with silence. They were calm and wished to understand me, or so they seemed, at least. They blinked somnolently, and pierced my heart through and through.

— May I touch you?

Blue eyes widened. Red lips curled ever so slightly.

— Yes.

In that moment, I knew I was the first one to ask him of such thing. But for me, I couldn't phantom the thought of touching him without his permission – my rough, calloused hands would disgrace the unforeknowing complexion with vanity I could not bear to show. And I knew that if he let me, with time I would ask him for everything.

There is nothing brave or chaste on the next thing I did; I merely succumbed to the demand of my body, because my veins would belch otherwise. The burning desire, ignited by the lone daisy in a golden river, slowly took over my actions. I had never felt my cheeks burn vermillion red from shame with the same passion I felt then. Abashed, I drew flower after flower from the punnet set beside me; and I decorated the golden locks that I wished to tuck behind the carefully sculptured ear affectionately.

I don't know how many flowers remained in the wicker basket before he caught my wrist to stop me – and I obeyed, of course I did, I wouldn't dare not to – because all I could think about was golden hair slowly hiding in a sea of flowers. When I looked down upon his face, I found him smiling.

— What are you doing?

A simple question, and yet my throat went dry. Soft, smooth voice capable of turning any man to shame, now questioned my hast actions.

— I... I'm...

I looked at my hands, full of leaves and clovers and calluses.

— I'm Grantaire.

Like red ink, a blush spread on his cheek.