To Fallow: The Hand That Planted – by Torché Johnson (Adult)
He greatly feared that every fragment of her essence would burst, dispersing into infinitesimal pieces too delicate for gleaning. A dandelion; elusive and fragile.
Even so, it was necessary. Painfully needful to dig into the soil of his own soul and unearth the unwinding truth like an unsightly weed. The decade lifespan of the roots, the way they had grown and coiled around his heart and bones were of no relevance.
Only truth was.
And there she was.
Basking in the sun, arms outstretched, skin radiating. Her aura resplendent, impossible to miss even amongst the golden dots interspersed across the virid bed of their passion.
She twirled the flower in her hand, folding its stem idly as he spoke his self prescribed poison. He could feel her and see her and yet, he could never reach her. She was his sun he’d believe to be a light year fable if not for her warming rays.
She was his sown seed that absorbed nutrients from his own miscarriage of forgiveness, courage, and resolve.
She spoke her peace through a warm smile, though her words were glass shards severing their boundaries.
He withheld the mournful tears brimming in his her-filled eyes. For he could no longer water this flower within his heart. He had to let it die.
And died she did.
The pain of her absence never dissolved, leaving him a frigid vessel of emptiness. He yearned for her, desiring to see her once more the same way one would pray for the warmth of the sun during frost filled hours.
And the longer he ached the more he began to think that maybe he was the dandelion and she was the hand that planted.