How can the air be this sweet when we are so bitter?
This question, as the light begins to fade, reaches into the weald to disturb the twilight. This question seeks to eclipse the scent of honeysuckle on the breeze. We hug the cusp of the woods like solitude. Suddenly, the world is too quiet. Those little white flowers overpower our senses. A deep breath to coat our lungs with the sweetness, to let it seep into our bloodstream.
It began as a dream, or maybe it was a short story we read, or an experimental film we caught on late night television in the 1980s. It sat and waited. The world changed around us until suddenly we began losing people. But we remember them.
This melancholy is only more honest. My beautiful sunset will never be seen again. This river, this mountain, this blueberry blossom, this strawberry juice that has stained my fingers, the sigh of a tired pup, and we are full.
Counter this bitterness. It is of no use. The only purpose is for you to be the witness of this world. Pay attention to the rustling of the leaves. The ache will never cease.