When I said farewell, I meant it
Posted on 22. Feb, 2008 by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Loss
When I said farewell, there was a tone in my voice that conveyed more than my words ever could. The rose I held in my hand didn’t have enough value to it, as beautiful and perfect as each petal had pain-mistakingly been, it still didn’t have the vibrancy you brought to my life.
My words sounded like a wounded soul, a prideful spirit, and a lonely heart. I couldn’t hope that you could understand what I was trying to say, only that you understood how I felt.
I was at a loss. The deepest abyss of indiscretion, wanting and yearning for something I would never have, trying to believe in a prayer that god himself had thrown into hell.
I was the child of man, feverishly holding onto my cursing words of a religion that didn’t give me any comfort today.
Yet there I was, trying to hold back the tears as I said good-bye. If you could have spoken to me, the words you would share would have lightened my life like rays of sunshine.
I wept silently trying to hide how much I cared for you, the lack of companionship I looked forward to in years to come tearing my soul into frail little portions.
When I looked up from the grave stone, everyone else was gone. The rain fell upon my face reminding me how cold I felt inside, and I only remember how numb my hand felt as I let my grasp of your rose go.
You may have had life cut short, but as with all roses, your essence will not be forgotten.