In April, it rains.
The rain would pitter-patter just outside, with my lover wrapped around me, his wings holding me tight. We would lie there, close. Then, he would get up and with a smile on his face, he would walk towards the piano, his piano. He would play it, in tune with the water, and he would play with color, with a vibrant look on his face. He would laugh, cry, and smile as he played. He made me laugh too, and I couldn't just sit there. Sometimes, I would sit by him and sway to the songs. He loved it, and I loved it too.
We both loved it.
I... will still love it.
His name... was Treble. He was like me, but more than just an artist. He was a musician, a pianist. I was a cellist, an artist, a wielder of bow and string. He loved it when I played for him, and I loved it when he played for me. When we played for each other, it was sharing our love for music. Our passion, however, came when we both played in tandem, when we both were outside, under the awning. There we played with nature, and there we shared our passion. We loved each other so much that music was our intercourse. An intercourse of sound, creativity, bleeding into the sense of just one sentence being played into a rhythmic beat. One heard beat after another, one string after another, and one key... just one hundred of those keys after another.
His wings were the greatest, if I had to say so myself. He had kept me at bay with them. Those stubborn, warm, large wings wrapped around me when I was upset, frowning like a child who got his toys taken from him or her. I would pout too, and he didn't mind, wrapping those wings around me again. It was my weakness. I usually cried right after. He didn't mind. It was April, and it was raining too.
One day we played, in April, rain wetting the green grass we had. We had our chairs set under the awning and we played. At that moment, like every moment under that awning, we shared our passion: colors of all kinds came out in appreciation of our music. Everything... an entire spectrum left at the mercy of two artists of music, bleeding their creativity into beauty. Then, at that moment, he left me. Left me with a kiss and a promise that he would come back.
In April, it rains.
In April, he left without a goodbye. His heart had lost the battle. He was a hospitalized pony when he was young, a hospital dweller, not a simple one and done. No, he was different. His heart couldn't take the stress of intense practicing, intense competition, the fierce battles he had to face when he was younger. At his age, with me--we were both in our prime--he shouldn't have been like this. But his heart did not agree, and neither did April; it was sunny out. We couldn't play anymore.
In April, it showers.
He did do one thing right. He left me a letter. He left me it because he knew he would die. In April, I had opened it. And in April, in April...
I read it. He loves me.
But he lied.
Dear Octavia,
It's not me. It's not you. It's not anything. In April, we share our love. We planned it from the beginning: met in April, loved in April, and loved throughout our three years of being together. We still love each other (I hope, otherwise I wrote this for naught), and nothing will tear us apart--except death. This is why I am writing to you, so we can talk for one last time.
Instead of saying "I love you, Goodbye", I want to say something different. I want you to think, to remember me and you, and to move on from me. There are many stallions in the sea, but I know that there are not many in April that share the same passion for music as you and I.
Instead of saying "I love you", I will say that I am yours forever. You are the star on the stage, and with all the staring at you, with your cello and all, they'll be missing the important part: us. I'll be there too, in your heart, while you catch the train of love through our passion, our music. We love it too much to give up, and I want you to carry that love through that cello. So enter every competition, every Gala, every seasonal event in Ponyville--no, anywhere abroad! You must!... we thought of it together. We planned it, right? In April.
Instead of saying "Goodbye", how about we say, "Welcome." Welcome the light, because even in the dark, the stars will shine down and love you just as I had. They don't discriminate, and nor do I. Not that...there is anything to discrimin--don't hate me for saying that! Drat, an ink blot. Forget that portion. No matter where you are, whether in the dark, or in the sun's marvelous shine, please, let yourself free. Be Octavia. Be what you wanted to be: a premiere cellist. Don't hide yourself under all the sadness you will feel (or are feeling) after I had passed. Let me rest, I am waiting for you patiently. I will watch patiently. I will love... you from above; I will watch you there. Love...
In April, it rains.
In April, it pours.
But in April, we lie. I lie. I never wanted to fail and die before you. We were to die together. I said I would always be with you. I'm sorry. Forgive me. We'll be together. Not soon, no. You have your life to live. Live it well. Live it for us, not for me. Live it for you, not for me. Live it because you wanted to be living.
In April, it rains.
In April, it pours.
So let it pour.
You know where I'll be.
Love,
Treble
I have lived.
There's nothing more to say than that. I am still living. I am living for you, Treble. There's nothing else. You loved me. I love you. There's nothing else.
Thank you. I'll always remember you. Remember your silly smirk, your warm wings, our love outside and in; we're forever. Yet, physically, we're lost.
I'll just remember your words, music--everything! Just... promise me you'll never forget me. Write it in the sky, write it for me.
In April, the night skies were clear. Octavia could see them for miles around. She was in the kitchen, washing her dishes. She looked up.
There, in the clouds, was a message. She had dropped everything when she saw it. She cried again. She felt his wings.
In April, it rains.
In April, it pours.
In April, in the clouds, he wrote:
"I will always love you, Octavia."
She replied through the pain and suffering,
"I-I will always love you, Treble."
And there in her home, later on that April night, she fell asleep with a smile on her face. She felt him, snuggled next to her while the rain pitter-patterd against the window. There, she felt his wings. He loved her. She loved him.
There was nothing else to say. Not until the next April. Until the next rain.
