The Passion Flower: What if Christ Wrote a Romantic Short Story!?

Experimental literature that blooms gratuitously, holding the pain of love

Daytime.
Vines on the veranda touched the windowsill, and flowers like white wings opened.
Light slowly lifted the dust in the room and placed a faint warmth on the back of my hand.
Your voice had not yet reached me, and only the rim of the cup was cold.
Pale purple gathered inside the petals, and the threads of the crown trembled quietly.
I steadied my breath and untied the knots of the vines with my fingertips. The wind outside pushed the lace curtains as if turning a page.
I drew a short line on the memo on the desk, careful not to add more words.
The mere fact that it had bloomed narrowed the distance between us just a little.
There was only one light source, and the whiteness of the day filled the room.

Evening.
The sun tilted, and the edges of the flowers began to close slowly.
You placed your keys in the entryway and lined up your shoes neatly.
The way you arranged them spoke more than any excuse.
On the table, a memo from a day of saying too much lay crumpled.
I did not unfold it, but traced the edge with my finger.
The promise not to raise our voices was kept, and only the silence moved.
The threads in the center of the flowers took on shadows, and the room's temperature dropped slightly.
We stood by the window, looking in the same direction.
Instead of blaming, I counted only the number of our breaths.

Night.
When we turned off the lights, the flowers slept completely on the other side of the window.
You held the pitcher and poured quietly onto the rim of the pot.
The sound of water continued briefly, and only during that time did my heartbeat settle.
I wiped away the remaining water droplets with my finger and drew a circle on the lightless glass.
The photo frame on the corner of the desk kept only its outline in the darkness.
Your voice became lower, and the number of words became even fewer.
That scarcity was not a rejection, but resembled the tending of a wound.
I nodded and touched your wrist for just a moment.
That way of touching remained in this room longer than an apology.
The flowers remained closed, receiving the night air.

Dawn.
The first bird's song cut through the distance, and the whiteness of the east entered the gap in the curtains.
You opened the window, and the cold wind gently carried the dust of the room.
The sleeping flowers began to loosen again, like fingertips.
I exhaled a long breath and erased one of yesterday's lines.
You said nothing, but held out your palm facing upward.
That open shape became a sign of acceptance.
I placed my hand over yours and waited for our body heat to slowly transfer.
Light shone through the threads of the crown, and the purple looked like a faint flame.
We did not count each other's failures, but looked only at the current brightness.
The morning white reached every corner of the room, and the shadows folded softly.

Prayer.
The flowers remained open and still, and the air in the room was composed with a faint scent.
You returned the pitcher, and I wiped the dust from the window frame with a cloth.
Only while our hands were in motion did our hearts let go of words.
I no longer crumpled yesterday's memo, but stacked the pages and closed them.
The thin threads running through the center of the flowers looked like stitches on a wound.
I understood that to hold without touching meant to maintain this distance.
Diagonal light fell on your profile, spreading quietly over your eyelids.
I nodded and aligned the height of my breathing deep within my chest.
Just as flowers have a morning and an evening, we have a rhythm of opening and closing.
I decided not to blame that rhythm, but to simply keep counting it together.
Forgiveness.