There's no place for us,
What is this thing that builds our dreams
and slips away from us?
She sits on the porch of her little house in the late morning sun. The light picks out strands of grey in her red hair. The letter in her hand comes from the great-grandchildren of a dear departed friend, and she reads the heading of 'Dear Auntie'.
Who wants to live forever?
Who wants to live forever?
She's an artist of note, a painter. A painter of memories, of times past. She lives in this house surrounded by her memories.
There's no chance for us.
It's all decided for us.
This world has only one sweet moment
set aside for us.
She goes inside to pen a reply, through the front room where she works. On easels and on the walls, her memories surround her. Some paintings she'll never sell hang in ornate frames on the wall, despite many offers. On one, a tall, strong, fair-headed man holds a sweet faced girl with long black hair. They smile down on the artist as she passes.
The second shows a fair-skinned, dark-haired girl in the clothes of royalty, a crown on her brow. Her smile is beautific and bright, with a sense of innocence never lost.
Who wants to live forever?
Who wants to live forever?
Who?
Down the hall, a painting of a blonde woman, tall and determined, faces another painting of a purple-haired man who's enigmatic smile peeks out of darkness. Out of habit, the artist sticks out her tongue at the mystery man as she passes.
In ther artist's bedroom is a simple bed, a clothespress, and a plain desk. Sitting at the desk, she glances up at the last, and most ornately framed painting in the house. The young man stands in a desert. Painted sunlight glints off his lavender metallic hair and stony visage, off the golden swordhilt at his side and the ruby stone of his cloak-clasp. His bottomless sapphire eyes stare determinedly at the far horizon.
"I miss you," she tells the portrait softly, but the blue painted depths of his eyes do not turn to her.
Who dares to love forever?
Oh..............
When love must die?
Her reply to the letter is brief and polite, but a refusal none the less. She will not visit the white city where her friend had lived, ruled, and died. She does not want to see the changes wrought by 150 years of time.
Dating the letter, she makes a mental note that she should send a present to that other holy city as well. Standing, she addresses the portrait on the wall again.
"What shall we paint today?" she asks. But still, the man keeps his eyes on the distance, ignoring her. Regardless, she brings the painting with her.
Just touch my tears with your lips.
Touch my warmth with your fingertips.
And we can have forever.
And we can love forever.
Forever is ours today.
She doesn't notice the passing of the day. Before her on the easel, a landscape of a lost city comes to life, a forgotten city arranged around the base of a giant tree that spreads its branches over the town like a benediction. Her memories, frozen in oils on canvas, are her companions now. But the companions of her heart watch from their walls as her silent tears roll down her face and into the paint she mixes.
Who wants to live forever?
Who wants to live forever?
Forever is ours today.
Voices outside draw her attention. She sees a boy from the town pointing toward the house, directing a cloaked and hooded figure. Wiping her hands on a towel, she goes to the door and out onto the porch as the man approaches.
He pushes back the hood, freeing his violet-brown hair to fall waving about his head, a lock falling in front of his right eye as the dying sun picks out strands of silver.
The artist observes his black boots, his brown trews and tunic. Her eyes rest mementarily on the golden swordhilt at his side, then the ruby cloak-clasp. Then finally, his face.
His skin shows months of travel in its tanned and windchapped lines. But his eyes are still the sapphire pools she remembers. He stops at the bottom of the steps to the porch and reaches out his tanned and human hands.
"Zel......" she sighs in recognition and relief.
"Lina," he whispers as he closes the distance between them to hold her. He is no longer the stone-faced man who never looked at her. He is the man who belongs to those eyes she paints over and over.
And she no longer has to live in her memories.
Who has forever anyway?
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