petals on fire.

The stones we stepped on were firm and strong, a taste of the impossible future. The sky should've been brighter and lighter, if you weren't using the latter to burn magnifying glass holes in my chest, and I didn't feel it till the wisps of dying smoke rose up and drifted up high above my head, altering my sense of smell, which was, to my dismay, preoccupied with your scent.

Eager eyes followed the back of your head, feet tripping over weeds and thorns, too focused to bend and cut myself loose. Ankled wrapped in vines, shins scratched and bleeding, and you snap, head still straight as a knife -

"Keep up."

We've travelled deep into this wilderness, but I've caught several glimpses of metal railing and hope to God you weren't aware of this fact.

We've reached a lake. Clear, crystal like, calm, serene. My eyes float back to you, collapsed on the grass, drawing immense pleasure from disturbing the quietness of the water, with rough, dry pebbles. I watched in a trance, noting the angle of your elbow, the fumbling of your fingers over the ground, the rolling and testing of the stone in your palm, the tightening of your muscles as you sent it flying over and into the sparkling waters.

During what seemed like the fifteenth repetition of this cycle, you paused in the second stage, and clapsed the pebble firmly in your palm. This one, unlike the others, was smooth, unblemished, clean, unscarred. You took my hand, and placed it in my palm, fingers purposely delaying the letting go of the pebble to feel the softness of my skin, untouched and unscathed by rough rocks. As I registered the soft, cool, sensation, you generously say-

"Keep it."

Funny, isn't it? My only mistake handing me perfection.