Flight: Fiction Fifty-Five

Fiction 55 had a topic a while back, a theme called Flight.

It's long over but here goes nothing:

It was a graveyard for spoilt makeup, torn net leggings and hastily ripped packaging. Boarders got the barest inch of space in their final resting place, and occasional neighbors always intruded, displacing comrades, with hot, sweaty skin, before the landlord evicted his most recent pretty little butterfly. They left in teary flutters of their wings.

Was it You?

I gave you a bouquet for Christmas
Grew each bloom by myself
Here in this old garden
Even when the snows came
And froze the ground
I carried the tears off your cheek
Planted them as seeds
Sprinkled a little dedication and foreplay
Propped up their heavy buds
And wrinkled leaves
Watched the petals disentangle
Till a knot formed in my throat

And they say that the thread of friendship
Can be mended when broken
But there'll always be that extra knot
The little bit of sensitivity
That builds itself up to a trauma
Deep within your eyes and
The quivering of your hardwood lips

You rejected my present on Christmas morning
Shut the door in my face
So I stared at goofy Santa on your wreath
Finding no humor in his sadistically cheerful grin
You came back put to hand me a rose
Picked, sieved from the blooms
I'm sorry to say
I only felt the thorns

So where does that put us?
I will never know when to call you
Whether I'm even authorized now that
It's not official anymore
Where does that leave us?
Lying somewhere between lost and found
No mutiny of the broken
Just a dead love of a token
Not much more than the empty boxes
Hiding beneath mangled wrapping papers
In the shadow of your Christmas tree

I was mistaken.
I apologize while I long for an apology
Apologize while I wait for forgiveness
I was mistaken.

It seems
There was never an 'us' to leave carelessly around
Stolen treasured memories from
Under the great pine tree

Present

glances askance
for lack of something
better
to say

I'd offer you my heart
but
you'd only give it away

In Which I Apologize

I'm sorry. If I haven't been the perfect person for you, I'm sorry. For the times I have stood before you and announced, said, done stupid things: I'm sorry. I could swear I would try harder if I had to do it all over again, but I don't want to be feeding you anymore lies. You've already been stuffed full of them and now that you're free of me I'm going to bet you will wonder what you ever saw in me. You're going to begin recognizing me as only the handpicked little goody-two-shoes you never got to know before she started bossing you around, taking chances and risks without telling you, procrastinating on important things she'd promised and then giving you all sorts of various excuses so typically secure you couldn't see through them. Or maybe that arose more from her acting. She's always been able to act well; taking it off the camera, off the stage, off the big screen, is just another little project for her to take on. You don't know how much work she goes through behind the scenes to ensure she never removes her mask.

You may or my not hear this apology of mine. You're probably too busy, entangled in your petty daily complexities, to hear me when I gaze at you somedays, telling myself maybe it won't make a difference in a month's time, a year's time. The only problem with that is, I don't want it to not make a difference. I want you to remember me for everything I've done, for you and to you. Just not this way.

I'm sorry.