The little boy, fascinated by what he learned, spent weeks under the stars and finally saw one set of stars his father hadn't shown him. He saw a celestial figure- a woman, smiling down with love pouring from her brilliant eyes. And every night he spent under the black sky, he saw the figure gain more brilliance, more complications. Stars extended each lash on her eyes, each fingertip became more delicate, each curve more subtle. The midnight clouds sent her messages to him. Held in by moist arms, caressed by grey dreams, and whispers of eternity, he fell in love with her.
The days became intolerably long. He could only see the night sky framing her divine form. He was living only for her cold embraces. He hated the sun, because he silenced her. He hated the sun for muting his love. Mornings housed dreams of the next night but with overly bitter aftertastes of a honeyed wine.
The patch of grass that housed him soon became so worn in, the earth was pressed into a bed for him - a wedding bed. He soon refused all other things. He drank only the water she sent, and feasted only on her image. Every night his hands gripped the dirt in ecstasy, and his chest heaved and arched toward the sky.
His hands went so deep that roots from trees wrapped around his finger tips. In horror he begged her to lift him, but she only could try to calm him with a gentle smile. Soon his hands became as earthen as the binds that buried them. But still his chest ached upward, yearning for her caress. He strained as much as he could, 'til every ounce of strength was in full use, and to his shock, a blood red pillar spurted from his breast. The pillar grew, and grew, and grew. It grew faster than any hair or nail, or lying nose.
His body, limbs entombed and heart, exploded drew from the grass and crystallized into an emerald monument. His whole body, save his brown earthly hands, and crimson heart became green and flat, as well-bred grass. Except as his head transmogrified, their was no emerald, no brown or red, but a golden crown of daffodils.
Those daffodils spilled out, a yellow ocean from were that crown, as if placed on what once was his head and left to drain across a plain.
There he lays still. With a golden sea, rooted in, and a red pillar that forever reaches high into the chill night fog, aching to hold her hand.
