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Four Months Later
Spectral shadows now haunt the vacant house in Tennessee. They are ones of yourself and Harry appearing as nebulous figures wistfully retracing the steps of every memory played out in each room.
Every wall you were sensually backed into.
Every floor you collapsed onto with heartache.
Every dark corner that sheltered your fears.
The wilted vines of romance that grew under the carpet and ascended toward the roof are surely felt by whoever exists there now, trapping their feet and trying to pull them down into their depths of despair. Their once vibrant color pales from perennial neglect, and they yearn for a single drop of love.
The two lovers are no longer the providers of such an arduous task.
You have broken free from the poison ivy and moved to untethered fields. The deadly nightshade that crawled over your body is no longer lethal, and your stitched heart is now thriving with unburdened lungs. Harry willingly took the needle and delicately sewed each open wound with threads of honeysuckle and lavender, patiently waiting for the crevices to bond back together until they blossomed into feelings of certainty and candor. He never pushed the process, always letting you grow at your own pace and sharing his sunlight when you needed it most.
You adapted nicely to the new soil. You left your dirt behind and pulled up your roots to bury them elsewhere. Somewhere more nurtured with eternal blue skies.
Harry's roots have always been grounded, so the day he left his home pierced thorns in all he's ever known and left him bleeding until you tore off your petals of armor to seal the gash. The cure was in you all along.
You wonder where he is now.
As you sit alone on the late January grass, no snowfall settling across the blades in rural South Carolina this time of year, you miss his warm presence beside you. The knitted cardigan you wear replaces his skin, the breeze finding secret passageways through every petite hole in the fabric. Your arms, terribly sore from moving boxes all day, could use his own wrapped around them.
The lake past the lush, rolling hills is grey from the reflection of the clouds above, and the water looks inviting. No other house can be seen for miles. It's what you've dreamed of — a perfect place to start afresh and continue raising your family away from camera flashes and prying questions. You have privacy at last.
A sudden soft plucking of guitar strings draws you from your thoughts. The acoustic melody plants seeds in your bones, coursing through the marrow until they lovingly consume your soul.
There he is.
Music follows him wherever he goes. Even when an instrument is absent from his versed hands, he still carries a symphony with his words. Either sung or spoken, they slip off his tongue with entrancing ease.
