Watch the Blossom Fall, (In Your Absence).

I'm not sure, nor entirely honest with myself, as to why pink blossom holds my gaze as it does: it always has, just like...
Maybe it's the fragility it clings on to the stems with, fighting the inevitable war and losing that war with Spring's decay? In silence I watch them pirouette, salchow and fall; I perform the same suicidal observance every year; there is too much beauty in this entropy to look away.
Mesmerized, full of hope, yet fully knowing that the burn of summer is on its way and I'll have to wait another year for the blossom's renewal, for it's fey revelation to be mine and mine alone, I watch. It's a weakness of mine, you could say, my obsession with such transient beauty, but it's a weakness I need.
Just like...