Tell me what you think. Good or bad. My grammar may be lacking but I did use a spell checker!
My Dear, it seems like only yesterday that eyes gazed heavenward when looking upon that something in the sky that I could not see. Ah, the dress you wore. It's soft linens that draped your body in flowing ruffles and lace. Yes, you were a sight to behold. A beauty of unmeasured proportions. Gazing up upon an illusion, yes, an illusion of something better. Something better perhaps you say? Yes, something better than I could offer I must admit. Alas, if I could see it perhaps I could change that though? This would be good, yes? Did I hear you say yes or should I assume silence means no? That sight, fixated in your eyes, dark eyes, dark eyes like that night sky of yesterday, the past, untouchable now my any means I can think to occupy my mind, recollection, or even my weakened, trembling hands with. Or, for that matter, with my own eyes that seem to illuminate beyond the capacity of your own but unable to see. Into the past you ask? Heh, no, just to that pinpoint in your eyes that I've noted to you my dear. That pinpoint of light that reflects upon the pupil. The pinpoint that I cannot see when I look away, up toward the focus of your vision. But returning to your eyes, dark, beautiful eyes, it rests there. Unmoving and unchanging. It must be important to you, for you look not away. As I stand here, talking, gesturing, pacing and bemoaning you, you gaze not at me but away at it. Up far and away at it, not at me. The dismay standing here that I occasionally rest my head upon, as you rest my dear, shhhhh, be still, do not cause your focus to move or retract. I am sorry I carry on so. Heh, now my own eyes fixate, I shall divert them, just rest my dear. Your hair looks lovely my dear, as do you. Your even, yet somewhat pale paler, made somewhat more obvious by the rosiness of your cheeks due to that rouge you wear, which I always loved, much like the bouquet you carry, much like the one I gave and have given you, now and then. Flaxen fabric, beautiful hair! So soft and silken, to caress it would be divine but to disturb it's features which seem to be fixed in time would be sacrilegious I must say. My dear, you look so beautiful and perfect. I think I must let you go now. To do anymore would seem inappropriate. To the meadow to recline? To picnic? Yes? You still see that little something, don't you? I shall wink in approval and smile widely in happiness and in warming, ever growing love. Tis a beautiful thing it must be. I will look for it no longer my dear, you seem to like it. I will tamper with it no more, for I seem to like it. Deep sorrow, sleep, evening swells and it all goes dark my dear, it all goes dark.
Poor Rachel, poor Samuel. Wandering about the place does seem to evoke visions of some couple in an embrace, but to assume that that was the extent of their relationship would be foolish. Are they even embracing? I really can't tell. The years have washed away more than enough sign of them for my wandering mind to make too much of an educated assumption. But brushing back and forth the delicate blades of grass that carpet their memory do give me something namelessly tangible that I will assume is an embrace of some kind though it's appearance is not anything I can see, just feel, assume or whatever my moods and their associated temperaments might permit at the particular moment I ponder their monuments.
Such a long time has passed. As I squint at dates and the foreboding prose that follows their names, prose that reminds me of my own mortality and the close relationship I share with Rachael and Samuel, it would seem but in the instant it took me to read it, for that matter, the literal etching their lives on the stone, had passed before the craftsman had even put down his hammer and chisel. Pock-marked, faded and moldy, such a sorry sight it has become. Well, the longer I stare the more appealing it becomes as odd as that may seem. A fading grey stone is all it is really. To what color it will become I know not, but it's grey hue seems to be becoming less and less so as time passes. Obsolete, tired old rock that it is. Rocks are always obsolete? Are they not? It leans slightly to the right, slowly sinking into the earth unto which it was placed. A bent, burdened old man slowly sinking beneath the burden of time, slowly turning to dust. He spills these shards of himself all over the grass to somehow disappear overtime leaving only his shattered skeleton standing in the place of honor, to become more and more nameless as the dates he wears upon his bosom move farther and farther into the past. Shall I have one someday? Hmm, perhaps the epitaph speaks truth. Yes. Yes, that I do believe Rachel and Samuel, my good friends. Therefore in time I too shall bear one such distinguished yet aged monument for a like me to visit. He will ponder my life as I do Rachael and Samuel. I will be eternally embraced. If not by some other Rachael than by the earth. A consummation of time itself! Beautiful yet sad at the same time.
Yesterday is here though long gone, here's to an eternity that never dies. As long as someone can remember the past.