A story of young love against the grain of a regimented, dystopian future.

Then I was young, and Apple was beautiful. I watched the thick ribbons of her hair grace the sway of winds that broke the cliffs by the cold sea in May and the reflection of the water spray on her corneas. We would have sailed away, but we could not. All we had of us were arms, legs, eyes, lips and warm blood and we took solace within ourselves if not social regime. The whitecaps were heavy, I remember, as was Apple in feeling. The rocky faces were wet and littered with putrefying bacterias and fungis, and their peril was in our minds. We could have stepped, forfeited our foothold and broke and twisted our bodies upon the pores of the fjords to find a final dump into the rages of the waters; peace via tragedy. But we had greater potentials than masked suicides in our state of ardour. Or, at most, so we had perceived in youth.

In days we would walk through forests of burgeoning green where heavens osculated the branches and the structures of Apple’s face. Lines have surely embedded within her soft cheeks now, though within those years aging was not to spoken-- her face was porcelain. Lust was within my adolescence beside her, and I weakly felt cause to linger upon her breasts and in her eyes, eyes like limpid pools, though by now such trepidations have grown asunder. Of the memory, the trees were warm with day’s glow, animals in perch and laze across their bodies, trunks titanic, ancient and crying. Formed by their oaken breasts was a hollow endowed with mosses underfoot and faintly caressed by sounds of an unseen distant stream; hymns would have been dreamt there. Upon its soft shore within the sea of green, we both made love unto each other under a sky of browning leaves pierced by blue. Words were redundant. Mutual love may have been the correct words, however, at least from where I had lain with her, our bodies in sweat and warm in the early autumn. And there was no shame felt from the trees, the animals or what was “us”-- all of which have withered under the acid sky of human consequence.

Steel towers jettisoned smokes into the skies of the metropolis in which our parents had worked until their deaths. I had climbed the towers once alone and took my eyes out across the rooftops salted with the calligraphies of the chronic acid rains. The shingles and smokestacks ran long overland through smog to sea, and I wanted none of it: an existence proceeded by demise in service of the machine. I wished to fly. And Apple and I would cross the sterile waters to another dream, cross the sea though we could not. We would, it was said, but perhaps it was but my lips moving to conclusion. For within the late autumn Apple grew old, and the acid rains turned a parasite to her brain and affections. She had turned and left me upon the seaside to cross alone, and retraced herself to the towers. The rain fell and all that was became but memory.

I recall waves breaking upon the land. The fault was Apple turned to a woman, but I? Turned to nothing and lost within oceans of love. Everything had had been tailored to eloquence, but then, my eyes had been obscured by rapture's tears, and the cracks within all had been left unrecognized, undefined by their cover no longer sweet. My head had hummed with the rain and Apple had walked into its abyss. And within the torrent my mind was cleared. Dreams like this must die.

Dreams like this must die.

The End

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