50 Word Stories: Life

My friends said it inevitable that I’d lose her. She’d always had her heart set on bigger things, stardom, the good life. Her eyes strayed about a second after we’d first so passionately kissed. Why did she leave, you ask? Life, my reply. Because that’s what I couldn’t give her.

To Love

Whenever I feel stuck,

the world gelatinous and unmoving,

I think of you.

With the fluid motion of oceans lost,

oceans found and oceans yet to be,

you lubricate my soul.

This is power you have over me.

This is your spell.

And this is what it means to love.


Her skin was the colour of the last April snows, her lips the red of rebirth. Gentle of mind and body, she flirted with us all in pursuit of a distant summer. These things always seem further than they are passing all to swiftly when you’d wish them not.

We treasured those few months she was with us, savoured her every last intoxicating aroma. A seasonal adjustment, she guided us away from the cold and drear presenting us instead with that most treasured of quantities, promise. We called her Blossom, that Spring was hers.

The Once Lovers


Yes, we were lovers, you and I. The spring knew us as the dawn on a dewy meadow, summer as a sun-kissed sky. Winter was warmer for our passion, the snow never settling, the winds not wild just free. In autumn, leaves fell around us as confetti at a wedding that would never be. We lasted a year though muddled seemed the seasons. We lasted a year though they claimed we’d not last a day. Ours was everything and everything was ours, and I couldn’t have been happier if the universe had taken me then to play amongst the stars. No, I do not regret this though I regret much. You gifted me with the most beautiful year of my life, then cursed me with the vacant rest.

So, my friend, you ask again, persist in your questioning, ‘Do I regret it?’

I raise my eyes to a cloud-filled sky and repeat that which I have told myself a million times or more, ‘I don’t regret our love just that we were once lovers.’


She’s heard in every heartbeat,

Seen in the depths of a mind’s eye,

A constant portrait of unblemished perfection.

Felt in the static that prickles the skin,

She’s no illusion, but reality made intangible,

A ghost so true as to tease corporeality.

Though her presence is not required

To be imagined, it is longed for,

Hoped for with every atom of self.

She’s sensory, no mirage nor optical trick,

A perfect most beautiful dream.

She’s you,

Just you,

And ever shall be.

She’s you, though as yet we’ve never met.