wilting flower
crumbling in pieces into the grass
i know it's real when my fingers graze it
crunching against a gentle touch
i know it's real because it's dead

real things can die
fictional things are only forgotten,
at least for a brief moment

yet fictional things can live on
living on indefinitely
an immortal being
a constant in change
an independent variable

but people are flowers
we grow from seeds
rise into stems and enclosed buds
and bloom, some earlier and some later than others
only to wilt away
petal by petal

i wish i was
unreal as the fictional things are
even if i am to be forgotten
just so i may stay as i am
forever.

i can cut all the petals off of you,

as viciously as i please....

but what i will fail to accomplish is the pulling of your roots.

They've ran too deep.

and well,

the petals will all return too soon.

and quite frankly

i remembered every color in them, anyway.

close your eyes to the sun, and I promise -

the iris will still feel him.


cowardice