Flowers on the pavement
The whole road was laid by fallen flowers. Crushed, defeated, they left behind a few wet tears maybe, as spidery patterns on the black road.
I loved those flowers. The elegant pale green stalks that burst open into five feathers of white. And the yellow stalks that peeped out shyly from within. One always longs to look beyond confines.
And we walked... talked occasionally. The smart crisp sound of steps in an unfailingly regular pattern on the otherwise silent road.
Those were the 'certain' years. One was certainly not a kid. One was certainly not old. One was certainly uncertain.
A fainéant beach breeze of the summer evening, a trifle warm. I watch him gather flowers of all colors. They make a startlingly colorful bunch.
There is a bend on the road home. The steps become shorter. Reluctant. We'd gathered more than just flowers. And none of it could be taken home.
The front lights are already on.
We stay out a little longer. Lying under the damp shade of the tree he places flower by flower on my hair. I laugh. I know how ridiculous it all would've looked. He smiles.
We now walk back home. Again.
The flowers drop one by one. And our steps away from what we've left behind.
The last one stays, trapped somewhere between tenacious strands. I like it that way.
It's still there; in between the pages of a book I no longer read.