Rosemary; it was thick with the breeze, hefty and gradual to pass.

Now, time is patient. Only just before was it rapid and shifting, flowing in every direction.

Sometimes, it would be the kitchen – where the fudge was hot and maple stirred, dripping from red lips. 

In other moments, it was at night – when the stars bled and skin sparked, sharp breaths muffled by thick air.

It was shadowy nights by the iron bedkeep, the metal device chirping with audacity.

When basalt eyes sunk, dark and unkempt on pale skin.

The coughs with crimson rain.

The shrieks with misty eyes.

Phony grins and forced chuckles.

Green veins and withering auburn hair.

She was young – too young to leave.

Maybe, if the gem on her still finger had never existed, the pain wouldn’t be like this now.

The breeze returned, now thick with a different scent. Her tulips were fickle and thirsty; they would need more water – a widower’s final vow.

I knelt, brushing my fingers along the stone. I expected to feel the jagged cracks and crevices of uncut granite, but instead I felt the rough pits and cobble-like imperfections of my own skin.

The corners of my lips turned upward.

Even now, she was still perfect.