You left with the autumn's golden gilded pages, the scent of coffee and chocolate lingering in a trail of whispering footsteps. I watch your figure growing distant, ascending somewhere I cannot belong.
You could taste the scent of other flowers out there, superficial pleasures of crystal sugar petals and wisps of perfumery, meeting the Lilly, the Daisy, the Orchid, because you are Rose. Why stay rooted to the soil to the dirt when the sunlight favors your beauty and no one will notice those prickly thorns?
I am Juliet. I watched you turn to plastic, dancing in that plastic masquerade, surrounded by those faces we worshipped and those faces we hated. The pendulum heart once swung in my favor has now recoiled.
I waited a year for your reply but by then the mask sunk into your skin.
Without you, Rose, Juliet no longer exists. Juliet lives through letters, but without correspondants, letters are but memories fading to dust. Girls in black moth dresses sifting through our dust. Who? Rose Mortmain has long disappeared.
A Capulet once followed a Montague to the grave.
Die Juliet.
-J. Kitteridge
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