Dusk’s Garden

The air smells like roses and Indian jasmine. The palm trees sway gently in the wind, as I scamper through the long grass. The moon is rising in the grey sky, with just a single streak of orange left. It’s an empty field. Both in the sky and on the earth, but not at dusk. This disenchanted garden, alive with succulents and roses, only appears at dusk, just like the streaks of orange in the sky. I’m late. She approaches slowly, breathing deeply. I can feel the heat radiating off her, tendrils of warmth spiralling into the cool air. Her hands, burning hot, find mine. We don’t speak, just feel. I only ever find her here at dusk, when her path across the sky lands here. My palms burn against hers. All of her, is entirely encompassing. Burning everything. But not our dusk garden, not me.

“Don’t go”
“I’m sorry”

I’m alone again. Night has fallen. She’s gone, and the ghosts are closing in. She kept them at bay, but not for long enough. They’re angry. The smell of roses makes it hard to think. The earth is humming. I’m sinking in the soil and the air stinks of roses. I can’t see her anywhere. I’m drowning in the soil now. The stars are shining. All is restored.