The Yellow Bouquet

It was yellow and white. He handed them to her and asked her to be his wife. She looked beautiful- he could taste her lavender ora. He heard her words like a sweeping piano cascading into wonderment and joy. She could feel his earnest proposal excite the air, leaving her frenzied and with a blank stare. She couldn’t prepare him for the destruction of her next touch. He saw so much white.

But to her, the dress was yellow. She felt bacteria gripping at her heart like an infection needing pleading, expecting too much- too much- and she was damn well sure she wasn’t good enough. Like the mucus that sticks and clogs the very thing that helps your breathe.

Breathe- but oh- how shallow she was, her body went numb. She couldn't breathe. Her eyes began to tear, her company was too near. The sound of her dress scrunching against the corner he had brushed her up against was echoing- scratching in her mind. Breathe- breathe- she felt like going mad. She SCREAMED for him to step back. His smile turned real flat.

Back, two three steps, she crept and throwing the bouquet at his head, she left the man who she'd thought she needed.

The man she tried to make herself fall in love with for ages. But now, running, she felt ageless.