Of Gentle Rains and Cold Teas

What happens when a loved one dies and a suffering soul is left behind? How warm and timeless is love?

The rain patters onto my window, molecules of water intermingling on the glassy surface, sunset visible trough the distant clouds, a million bright minds flashing out like the lightning crashing in my ears. Gone far and come near, sunsets fade and waves break on shores distant from my own, moons rising and falling in worlds innumerable.

Touch my soul and I will touch yours, the connection will swirl galaxies in our tea, the brown liquid moving to our command. And together we will imagine rivers, clouds and faded clocks in dusty sitting rooms. We shall shed light there where none is to be found anymore, we will bring the scent of tea back, imbuing life into old conversations.

She sits there, her ancient gaze projected onto the fields of green gone, her mind flows to places too old to remember yet as vivid as the very tea that sits in front of her. The seas of passion shall crash onto the coasts of eternity with such crash that it will deafen the defiant gods, the imagined vapor trails fading into the background radiation.

In the mind's eye, she sees him as he was when blood still ran trough his face, when his yellow smile still shone like the brightest of the two suns, apotheosis of life reaching far, the old, faded fingers touching strings, making the music that fuels passion and the desire of all things unreachable.

And I take you by the hand and we dance the dance of the ages, forgetting time, forging steel from flame, the hot iron sparking like the midnight sun. And they danced like that too, for great love is never forgotten, ever within reach of the memory. Yes, high the memory that carries on, high the memory that gives life to age.

And when wrinkles line my face, and when the tears of age stream down my soul, and when the darkness of the times imbues itself within out spirits, then we shall become as connected as the strings within a piano, as attached as the wooden bats of the paper night.

The summers day of our old age shall cover the sunshine, the dark clouds on the horizon will split into two and allow our peaceful harbor passage. Slowly, our souls shall wither, and we will fade, just like the wallpaper in that old kitchen, the memories cooling like the tea on the table, our own lives ticking away like the grandfather clock in the sitting room.

And then, the rain will patter on, erasing our names forever.