She was atheist and
he was a painter who
believed in everything
and the world, the glories
it held, endless fountains of
knowledge to be obtained.
"It's an amazing situation,"
he mused, running his hands
through her red hair.

She believed in asbestos,
that it was her favorite
color and he believed that she
needed more things to believe in.

He ate cranberry sauce while she
read him poetry about cats and disciples
and classical compositions and the
relevance in it all. It
was all he could do to say, "Wow,"
staring at the sky, effusion of clouds
draining, pouring out before dispersing.
Her blue flower dress smelt of
chamomile and tulips and she wore a
yellow chrysanthemum in her hair, his
head rested in her lap, her breathing
so soft.

Flash cards and timer reminders on
PDA's kept him remembering every
little nuance. "This cupcake is in
celebration of the fifth time
I kissed you and made you blush."
She blushed again before becoming
flustered. A mental note, Twenty-fifth
time, blushed. Third time, flushed.

He took Charcoal pills for his stomach
and she took pills to get high or dead,
whichever won out for the day, and he
cried out for the ninth time to never
do it again. "My world would be
crushed and obsolete without your smile
waking by my side, the tranquility of
life erased, the point of it all gone.
I beg of you..." He let the thought
drift as she drifted to the bathroom and
watched in sadness the flush of her joy
away and down the toilet.

She asked him, "Why do you love me?"
He said, "Why do you love me?"
And she said, "Because you give me
something to love."
And he said, "Because you need
someone to love you."

The majesty of the sky-scape on
a Wednesday afternoon in the late
December countryside seemed to
dwarf their problems and oddities.
She told him she wanted to eat
sugar plums because they reminded her
of her father when he was still alive
and when he brought home sugar plums every
pay week, when life was worth living,
staying alive and the notion of
birds and bees all made sense.

He found her atop a hilltop, arms
wrapped 'round knees, staring
out into the vastly green visage
of rolling hills and trees jutting out
at weird angles, green awash with
auburn rays, the setting sun.

He sat, gave her a sugar plum.
She took it as he said, "I want you
to believe life is worth living."
He remembered her saying, "My god, I
believe, it's grand and all. I believe."
before her face buried into his chest,
sighs and waves of tears and sobs
releasing into his heart open for whatever
thusly she would give; so wide.