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 #flowersandcigs

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The flowers are still raining down from the sky.

Still on time, still every day, still consistent.

 

 

 

 

…

 

It hasn't been so long that they can visibly see any change on the plants. Under sparkling droplets, the leaves are still dry and dull and damaged. If they close their eyes, they can imagine the small cracking sounds that the sick tree makes when they touch it to be something coming from a plastic sheet.

 

Timir would have been in pain if it weren't for the little smiles their friends make against the glistening flow of light. They can hear wind chimes outside, far away enough that the source is indeterminate. Timir feels like they're being touched by earth.

 

 

 

They know that time is a beast one should never hope to tame; that life is a force one should never try to understand; that change is a calamity one should never wish to flee; that control is a power one should never pray to grasp.

 

 

It's nothing new. They've always known this. Some facts are just harder to accept than others.

 

 

Flickers of dust dancing around the plants as they sing into the colloid that is the air register to Timir as a promise made in silence. The weight on their chest does not feel like an anchor but a reassurance, gentle and caring.

 

 

 

 

And for an eternity of a blink of an eye, Timir notices.

 

Their curtain flaps as the wind purrs to greet city birds on their way home, and orange light breaches through the slits in them. The ray reaches in to caress their face softly, telling them the day has already walked its way closer to the end.

 

They remember as well — there is something they were looking forward to. Every day.

 

 

Stepping out to the balcony,

"Hey," they hear a voice from above.

 

Only, it doesn't feel like a lifeline anymore — not as much as a reward.

 

 

 

"Hey," From where they are, they can't see the man. Timir leans on the railings, letting the petals fall onto their hair.

 

"The flowers are doing good." He says. "Asha is not the smallest one anymore."

 

"Oh!"

 

"You can come visit, if you'd like."

 

They hear a light clunking sound of something against the metal bar above. "I would."

 

"Helena is turning redder."

 

"Ah,"

 

"Not bad-red. Good-red." He adds. An afterthought, maybe.

 

Timir knows. "Uh-huh,"

 

 

Sunlight shines on a dirt-filled clay pot on the shelf beside them and Timir wonders why they haven't gotten to plant something in it yet. It's just sitting there. Timir blinks and it's in their hands. Not magic, just a snap decision.

 

 

"Do you want an ashtray?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"When I was up there, I thought I didn't spot one."

 

"Oh, right. It's not like these are gonna burn, so."

 

"I see." Timir thinks. "Do you mind using one?"

 

He makes a noise Timir thinks is humming, "No."

 

Vines climb the railings into their hands. Green arms grow out around the cylindrical curb of the clay, nesting in between the small cracks, over the indented texture.

 

"Here." They say, as greens stretch out upwards, almost like they're dancing to the sounds of the sun. They look up and the light makes everything a bit more purple.

 

"Oh—" He answers, and Timir can feel the weight being lifted up from the tree. "Thank you."

 

"Of course."

 

 

 

 

The clock forgotten.

 

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illustration - tan2w