IN A WEEK
The snowdrops have started to appear. The sun is not yet risen, but they glisten with mourning dew even in the cold absence of light. The nights have been long, and there have been too many now to count, but with the brutal death of winter comes the hope of the dawn. The sparrows begin to call to each other, their saccharine song slowly willing the sun to wake from its slumber. I lie, listening, for it is all I am able to do. Listen, and watch as gentle strokes of pale yellow are brushed into the midnight blue that flees now at the first blush of sunlight.
The budding daybreak sharpens the unnatural shape in front of me, and I feel the willows around us breathe in relief. This beauty surrounding me would mean nothing if he were not here with me. Though we could be no closer, it is not close enough. The desire to crawl into his chest and bury myself there is devouring me; to become so deeply embedded within him that our bones fuse together, that our heartbeats, in such harmony, cannot be distinguished from one another. As he becomes clearer in my failing vision, I begin to dread nightfall. With only my hand clasped in his, what’s left of me is dreadfully bare. Lifeless. Bereft. But sundown is hours away, and time lost meaning long ago. For now, I will bathe here in his brilliant gaze for as long as I can and let everything else fall away. Words left us even before we arrived here, but what good could words do when I find all my meaning in the curve of his lips? What could words say that I can’t already see in the soft furrow of his brow? A flower needs no words to know how to bloom, just as I need no words to know what lies in his tortured heart. And yet, there is nothing I want more than to hear his voice again. To hear him say my name like he’s uttering a prayer. This would save me, I think, but I know he won’t speak. So, I think of all the other things I’m craving, all the moments I took for myself without thanks. I remember what it’s like to watch a wave break, how it feels to lick an ice-cream cone as it drips down onto my hand, or to hear a long-forgotten song. Most of all, I think about what it would be like to feel summer’s gentle fingers threading through my hair, to be kissed by the sun once more. My body aches with the weight of the memories.
They’ll find us in a week, when the farmer’s dog catches our scent close to the ditches by the river. Spring’s maiden gasp of air has melted the thick snowfall that kept us hidden for so long. The first brush of light to graze my wanting fingers has reminded the heart of its beat, and yet there are parts of us that will never thaw. I know they’ll find us soon; it makes my body cringe, the thought of having to take my abominable hand away from his. They’ll pull us out of this hollow, grimacing at our decaying flesh, and they’ll take us to be inspected and cleaned, wretched carrion colder than the metal it’s lying on. They’ll note the fox bites, and the bird claws, and the blowflies— starved love-letters written into our skin— but they won’t ever know how long we were out there. Even I can’t quite recall how it happened. We were together and… I forget the rest. When they give up, they’ll finally lay us to rest, barely a metre apart but too far in any case. My hand will remain as it was, clutching his as if it were still there, and forget-me-nots will sprout from our rotting bodies, and even when those flowers are long dead, even when our gravestones have crumbled into ruins, even when I am nothing but dust in the earth, I will remember the way his carob eyes melt like honey in the blazing sun. Perhaps it is all I will remember down in the dark.
I feel a deep weariness creeping over me, and I know that the soft, brown earth waiting for me will lull my goosebumps to sleep like a baby in its mother’s arms, but there is a peace like no other here. I know he feels it too. Even as the crows circling above us inch ever closer, a panic overcomes me: the sun is rising a second too fast. To stay here and sink into the damp grass, I think, would be the loveliest end. To join the ladybirds and the frogs, to forget this hunger that will never be eased. To make our homes in each other.
The ghost of warmth tiptoes across my tender skin like a child taking his first steps, kept upright by the gentle breeze that will carry our scent downstream. They’ll find us in a week, but until then, I will imagine that we are only sleeping. That soon we’ll awaken to see the snowdrops blooming, and we’ll remember what it is to be alive.