My sweet

She walks in her colorful, fragrent garden day in and day out, hoping the rushing waters of her small, flowing stream can carry her away into the life she once knew.

She sits upon her cold, stone bench with the name carefully carved into it's shining surface.
A surface like water, but forever frozen, just as she was.
The name was a warm reminder of who she once was.

Bags and creases line her fragile face, and soft, silver hair flows down her arched back...
Only do the lavender lilacs reflect what her eyes once were. The name, his name, is warm at the touch.
She strokes her dry, softly wrinkled hands across the carving, remembering what he gave her.

This garden, where she will forever be, this garden, where his cold, lifeless body shall forever lie.

As night grows darker, the leaves softly rustle on the now haunting, dark shadows called trees. Wind chills her light skin and whispers across her weak neck. Shaking in the bushes and whispers from the pond mock the terror on her tired face. Her eyes are wide open, but her mouth is creased tight.

Her cooled blood rushes through her veins, sending an impossible pulse, triggering a jult within her jagged rib cage.
She gasps, because her lungs will no longer allow for her to scream... Another restless night.

Morning awakes, the sun warms her fading skin... There she sits, waiting a new day, a new night... yet all the same, and forever the same.

Reviews

[roarke]

Is "jult" a word?
Interesting piece. I get a couple of impressions from it.
Is this a back story to a fable?
Is this an actual woman mourning a lost love?
Is this a figurine on a tombstone hosting the spirit of the other loved one?

this is a good paragraph, but needs some rewriting.
"As night grows darker, the leaves softly rustle on the now haunting, dark shadows called trees. Wind chills her light skin and whispers across her weak neck. Shaking in the bushes and whispers from the pond mock the terror on her tired face. Her eyes are wide open, but her mouth is creased tight."

All in all an interesting picture. I can feel the words flowing and the images forming as you write. I can tell it's getting easier. Keep going.