Outlet

I closed my eyes and saw a girl who handed a boy a flower. A flower in a box. A bleeding heart in a box, hugged by the most supple, moist soil.

Soft petals, pink hued and satiny. 

Blooming, healthy, pulsing with life.

His hands used to cradle so tenderly that flower! How he used to react to the flower's charms; its sweet scent somehow scintillating. He cared for it's soil, making sure it maintained it's lush moistness, ensuring that it's petals boasted it's very best colors. How he whispered to the flower, how he used to dole such praise, with his hands, his lips, his appreciation. In return, the flower burst forth with life for him, just him, with sinewy, breath taking life.

It became so cold so fast...the bleeding heart in a box felt the first frost of what has been a never ending winter far too swiftly. How quickly it became assumed that the most minimal care of the bleeding heart, just enough to keep it alive, would suffice! When care instructions were spelled out gently, or shouted from the height of urgency, sweet, fiery, dewy urgency, alas! they went unheard. 

Sweet, fiery, dewy urgency, that was what it was, when the flower's bloom sang loud and silently it's most titillating song! Urgency, when it emitted it's sweetest scent, in the spring... How could one possibly turn away? On display, many gardeners marveled at it's strange, trance-like allure. How they longed to simply stroke one petal, to waft on just one of its candied breezes. How they longed to sip gingerly of just one drop of it's dew.

The bleeding heart in a box kept breathing. It's roots were deep and thick, it's soil lush. It's will was strong. 

The boy had grown, and transformed after many steps along the dirt road in his journey.  With time brings an inevitable exchange; the letting go of things and the picking up of things. Too many things, perhaps? Too many melancholy little attaché cases, too much of a good thing, not enough of a better thing... The bleeding heart lived. It lived, and though it's petals sang their colorful song much softer, it sadly sang. The passion with which the beloved boy had once stroked it's petals had blown in the last few years' wind, carried far with the pollen, to some obscure venue unbeknownst to any but the boy.