The Secret of Poppies
A prose-poem
I remember the red. Perhaps because it stood in such contrast to the dark sky. The blooms were a blood-red in colour. Roses? Dahlias? Ah, yes, they were poppies. The poppies adorned her, scattered across her beautiful face, though perhaps………too much. Too….much?
Or just enough to conceal a memory I can never quite recall.
We danced and squealed in joy under the clear, bright moon. We ran, stumbling into one another. I remember the blades pricking my skin, but I barely felt it, lost as I was in my own joy…
….and just as much in a quiet madness.
Her laughter echoed, wild and frightening, yet intoxicating. The way it always had. It rained. I think it rained too. Because I remember. I remember the water on her face. The droplets rolling down her rosy cheeks. Merging with the red that clung to her.
Rolling and rolling and rolling….ro…………
Huh? But I can never do it, you know. What, you ask? Remember, of course. Remember why I was covered……….in her red. Why did it smell the way it did, sharp………..metallic?
Warm. Too warm. Heavy against the December chill.
Ah…..I see……Now I remember. Lean a little closer, will you?
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Can you keep a secret?
Ssshhhhhhhhhhh……
