Rogue sat for days in his garden trying to find ways to tell her goodbye. The midnight gold in the sky refused him light. Rogue sat and refused to cry. Rogue was brave. Their were wells that were filled with dreams he wanted to see. To live. In his garden he was safe. Very safe.

Once he was surprised to find her by his side. His ‘brain was trying to remember her name’. He was searching. He was scared.

He was too late. Fast forward to the present.

Rogue sits for days in his garden trying to find ways to tell her goodbye. Rogue dreams. He dreams of walking barefoot in summer, casting a shadow on her face, so that she can stare back in his eyes. She is his salvation. He sits and wakes the memories that broke him down, held him straight and spoke to him now. They were all he had left of a dream that was not real; for dreams aren’t real. He sits and waits for dawn. He sits with a glass of whiskey and some smoke in his mind. He is real. he is here. He is rogue.

She is beautiful. She didn’t say goodbye. Maybe that’s why she still drops by to meet him in the garden. She never enters. She just wishes he would stop sitting there. She even cried for him. He never cries. He only dreams. He dreams that she would step in for a while. It may seem like a stretch, but its thoughts like this that make him breath even today.

All of their history had little to with her face. She was a 'mistery with violins filling in space'.