It is writ in mine own hand, though I scarce do recall the hour wherein it was penned. They would have named it love.
I named it him.
He was fair of visage—
in such wise as all things are
that are never meant to be held in mortal hands.
He was as light upon a winter’s morn—fair, yet fleeting, as all fair things be beneath heaven.
Men did call him beautiful; I called him mine.
He was as a wild rose, springing where no foot might safely tread, for all that beheld him did fear the wound of his thorns.
Yet I feared it not. I took him. I gathered him with trembling joy, and bore him close unto mine heart, though my fingers were already stained with crimson for it. I deemed pain a small coin for so rare a beauty. I deemed love might bind him unto me forever. Fool that I was. He tarried not. He faded, as candles fade in windless chambers—softly, and without mercy bestowed. No violence was in his departing, only an absence so complete it became a wound in itself.
I did entreat him then, as one entreats a departing dream— “Abide yet,” said I, “abide but a little longer.” But he was already gone from me, though his shadow yet did linger before mine eyes.
He had once spoken of constancy—of forever—as though such words were not as glass, fragile beneath a careless hand. I believed him. God forgive me, I believed him. After his passing, the world became as a house wherein all candles had been quenched
The days were long, yet void; the nights longer still, and full of remembrance. I would call his name into silence, though I knew no answer would come. And yet I called.
For the heart, once bound, doth not so easily unlearn its chains.
The rose is withered now, and lies no more in any garden known unto me
And I—though I yet draw breath—am as one who hath lost not only love, but the very tongue by which love is named.
…If this be remembrance of him,
then I fear I shall never forget.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 2:53 PM UTC
It is writ in mine own hand, though I scarce do recall the hour wherein it was penned. They would have named it love.
I named it him.
He was fair of visage—
in such wise as all things are
that are never meant to be held in mortal hands.
He was as light upon a winter’s morn—fair, yet fleeting, as all fair things be beneath heaven.
Men did call him beautiful; I called him mine.
He was as a wild rose, springing where no foot might safely tread, for all that beheld him did fear the wound of his thorns.
Yet I feared it not. I took him. I gathered him with trembling joy, and bore him close unto mine heart, though my fingers were already stained with crimson for it. I deemed pain a small coin for so rare a beauty. I deemed love might bind him unto me forever. Fool that I was. He tarried not. He faded, as candles fade in windless chambers—softly, and without mercy bestowed. No violence was in his departing, only an absence so complete it became a wound in itself.
I did entreat him then, as one entreats a departing dream— “Abide yet,” said I, “abide but a little longer.” But he was already gone from me, though his shadow yet did linger before mine eyes.
He had once spoken of constancy—of forever—as though such words were not as glass, fragile beneath a careless hand. I believed him. God forgive me, I believed him. After his passing, the world became as a house wherein all candles had been quenched
The days were long, yet void; the nights longer still, and full of remembrance. I would call his name into silence, though I knew no answer would come. And yet I called.
For the heart, once bound, doth not so easily unlearn its chains.
The rose is withered now, and lies no more in any garden known unto me
And I—though I yet draw breath—am as one who hath lost not only love, but the very tongue by which love is named.
…If this be remembrance of him,
then I fear I shall never forget.
