He Was her Unamore

The flowers on the the windowsill succumbed to their fate as the last petal fell onto the wood below. A cloud of dust coughed, before it’s brethren danced in the sunbeams, interrupting her reverie. The woman wiped a tear from her eye. It was beautiful, this fleeting moment of particles suspended. It's what they once were, her and Him. With Him, the sun rose and set. With her, the light was eclipsed in shadow. He had breathed his last breath, leaving her in a state of stasis and stagnation.

He was her unamore, and she was His. How she would find meaning beyond this moment was beyond her. Perhaps she would dance with the dust, waiting for her last petal to be plucked, like His. If only she could muster the strength to smell the flowers while they were still on the vine. Maybe she could plant the seeds, and wait for a the new buds of Spring, for the Spring in her step. It was the winter of her life, and she wasn't ready for harvest. Could she wait for the frost so that so she could sow her soil? Time would tell if she was a unamore, or if there was more story to be told.