The Book Of Life

A glance of lucidity in the whisp of who once was Satoru. Mix of poetry and story.

Life contained in a book. 

A book that bring pain, 

but pain is better than feeling nothing?

And if it got too much,

There was always way to push everything away.

A pile of pills

A pipe and smoke

A way of escape 

For a coward 

But eventually nothing works.

Feelings fade

Thoughts return

The Book is picked up 

Reality comes crashing down 

Until it gets too much

Until Paranoia of what is waiting

Waiting at the bottom

But a Coward

Never will reach the Bottom

Two years had passed since she was released. Four years since he had began to fall. Still falling, now without a purpose to fight the descent other than fear of what was waiting for him. Fear that would send  a terror of life over the usual blank espresso eyes, grasping onto the poisons that would cause him to float but never ascend like she once had. Back then, only a smile would have him soaring above the hole and when she showed signs of healing- he could never believe he would be dragged back down. No matter of the others who he allowed to steal him. Three years ago he had sold his soul willingly even now he did not regret it not even if he knew he would never reach out of this hole. He sold his soul thinking she would heal and ascend back into her life. Life filled with flowers, the park, them sleeping under the same roof again rather than parted at night. Him in the walls once considered home with scents acting as ghosts and she in walls of white and smells of antiseptic. The flowers filling the room unable to drive the horrid smell away. 

Sage for good health and long life

Pear blossoms for comfort

So many different scents he surrounded her with, 

all messages for her hopes 

when he could not be there. 

Calendine for joys to come

Dahlia for Dignity

 

The nurses giving him strange looks 

when he through away the beautiful arrangements sent to her rooms

 beautiful to look at, but they could not read the messages 

just as the ones who had sent them could not. 

They did not know, but he did 

He had known she could as well

Fennel for strength

Strength she carried until her dying breath, strength that Satoru wondered if he ever had had. But there was no joy to come, not with her gone. No comfort not even within the book of flowers, the book of her. He had her cremated, planted her ashes in several flowers and once they bloomed, he pressed them into a book and planted the flowers in pots. Those were the only things living in the apartment even in his drugged state would care for them lovingly. And to be so much closer to her, he would pick up the pressed plants.

Her pictures still up on the walls everything just as she left it. 

The only thing different being the wisp of what once was her son. 

Author's Note

This is another look of Satoru, the other being 'What is left To Make Better", once more I do not have a beta/editor (always open for one!). The language of Flowers I know varies but I base my meanings from 'Victoria's language of Flowers' From the book "The language of Flowers" which is amazing. Anyhow, always open to criticism/suggestions! Thank you for reading.