[ WP ] Flowers grew where she walked , only to be burned away in the footsteps of him who followed .

She was beauty incarnate. For me, at least, with her hair flowing, with hordes of children playing around her, with her clothes flowing in the wind. I watched her grow, turn into this woman, walk in front of me with pride. And I wished in that pride there was still the spark of love. Wherever her foot stepped, blades of grass sprung, flower bloomed in her stroll. Every tree that she touched offered apples in exchange. Every bird learnt to fly from her hands, and every birth had her as a midwife. Every artist had her as a muse, every religion had her as a loving deity. 
 
 And there was a time she loved me back. Times she tried to reach her hand to me, times she sent me gifts of fruits, before sending birds with messages towards me. But I was cursed from birth. Every one of her touches left her with scars at the tips of her fingers. Every fruit I touched, I could only feel how rotten it was. Apples turned to mush as soon as my palm as much as grazed them. The paper scrunched and burned before I could read her love letters. And the birds were feathery carcasses as I held them tight to my chest. I tried to pick up the flowers she left behind. Following in her footsteps, all I can leave behind is ash. I was a muse as well, you see, but never in the foreground. I was the dark spots. I was the one religions were afraid to speak of. The one mentioned with spats. 
 
 But I never minded. No. It's a cycle. And I look at night and day, and we are like that. And I look at water and fire, and we are like that. 
 
 She is life. And I am death. But this is how it has always been. And we know. And she still leads my way, and leads my sight, and leads my eyes and heart. And I follow her through everything, because she fills every void of mine.
