In the coming spring, a lilac would blossom.
The soil grew heavier, dry, cracked; my skin was taut with promises of you. The birds sang, awaiting your arrival. The trees danced in the wind, illuminated by an imminent dream.
But, you weren’t even real.
So I shriveled up; if you couldn’t flower, then neither would I. The birds left; leaves descended from the trees. The winds tormented me, reminded me of the breath you never would breathe. All I was left with was the memory of you - something that wasn’t and would never be true.