Burning Muse

Proof of a Pen: The Weeping Willows Link post

Staff Note: I like the language, and how it flows. Interesting images.

willfulevolution:

She sat in the grass next to the river, her fingers gently skipping across the surface of the water while it meandered through the city of glass. The sun reflected off the glass buildings and into her eyes, while the tips of her fingers tingled, almost numb, from the chill of the water.
Across the stream lay the dead. The dead from the disease, the dead from the war, the dead from the age. She lay in peace, though, with her fingers in the water, just like the others across the stream, while the sun nipped at her fingers. They were crying, both of them. Sobbing together, for the same reason.
The water ran beneath their fingers like mirrors, displaying their reflections, images long since changed from what they used to know. They trailed their fingers in the water, as they wept next to the river, next to the dead. The river made the slightest of sounds, which blended in with the whispers of the dead.
It started as a shadow, almost. Trailing down the stream like hair, floating on its way down, slowly, with the pace of the stream. It’s coming closer, closer to the girls, who were far away, buried in their sorrow. It hits the first finger, yet nothing is felt, save the slightest warmth, awkward against the numbness of the chilly water. It was warm, almost like it had just been drawn.
And I watched my body float down the river, my blood seeping into the water, as the trees wept, and the dead beneath the stones on the other side of the river whispered in my ear, calling me to my rest, my eternal spot next to the river. I watched as I gently drifted under the Weeping Willow, and listened as the weeping stopped, and the whispers of the dead ceased. I watched as she gently brushed her fingers across my face, feeling my flesh for the last time, her fingers running through my hair like they always used to, running across my naked body like they used to, running through my soul like they used to. But only for a brief moment, because as I drifted by, all that was left was a smear of red, the whisper of the dead, and stains of blood against the pale fingers of the only girl who cared about my death. The only girls who wept for me; the Weeping Willows.