The Wedding of Darkest Roses

The Wedding of Darkest Roses This woman next to him, one that he hasn’t seen for years, has aged so finely she’d rival the finest vintage wine on the planet, and the family beagle is being held by the youngest child of the couple he is about to watch join together. This union he thinks, is no different than the ones visible to him in every pew of the church, where flowers of every kind curl around the edges and down the backs of every seat. The flowers speak to him in the most natural yet archaic of languages saying Watch us here. We coronate your presence. Every time is the same. Once, he asked the woman next to him to marry him years before. Twice, she said no. How could I ever do this again? he asked. And the music of that moment, like the music of this hour, rises to the brim of his being, and overflows. He is sure to catch most of it, just as he catches the clear words of the minister whose vowels rise like balloons. And among the lilies whose sanctum he inhabits, are the darkest of roses, spinning and drifting their way through the sections of everyone, like ink dissolving itself through water. Like the way she may have once seduced him, these roses sway their way to the front door, enticing him to follow.