FicWad

he promises her a garden, not of any living flower - such warmth no longer grows
from his hands, only petals, ephemeral memories - but the garden he promises is real;
the beds the vases the vines that twine up marble no longer silent still
but each step
each stair
each floor filled with real memories of her own (not
borrowed - shaped beneath her fingertips) so she listens as
he promises with
each breath
each touch
each tear of his body into her as the garden grows beyond her cage with each memory of
him - and here, he promises, nothing is real.