Saudade

It’s been years on now, and really I cannot quite remember the exact moment when.  The years and months have passed and somehow the description of a crippled girl residing in a cottage filled with drying herbs and flowers led me back unto you.  And at the time I remember feeling a hint of sorrow, for every flower you decorated your apartment with for me you’d conceded to stealing.  What does it matter now, likely every last theft has been forgotten.  A flower from a garden, a yard here, there.  Others have since grown in their place across the ever turning seasons.
I am left with the memory that persists to this day.  Each time I revisit the memory the flowers become more and more illustrious, numerous.
The bouquet.
I rarely feel beautiful these days.  I couldn’t say whether I am or not within, either.  The sense evades.
Where are you to take my face between your petal soft hands and kiss me quickly, one last time?
Your apartment that night, the beautiful casts of light.  How I wish we could live again in that moment.  But it’s gone, and will likely never be again.