The Dance of the Weeping Willow
By Taylor Johnson
These accounts were recorded among the private murmurings of a devoted admirer to his dearly beloved.
I sat and watched him sway in your delicate leaves for days—moving with the graceful elegance of a skilled dancer. He had always loved to dance. He could propel himself into the air to unimaginable rhythms, twisting mid-flight and landing softly on the tips of his toes, as graceful as a swan gliding across still water.
A skilled performer, he was. Cloaked in beauty, he captivated audiences, gained admirers, and enjoyed the affections of many lovers. He was the pinnacle of the theatrical world—the envy of peers and the obsession of critics. His name echoed through elite circles and whispered through backrooms alike.
“Notorious.”
“Talented.”
“Scandalous.”
And above all else, “Beautiful.”
These were just a few of the words used to describe him—our blossoming flower of the decade.
The Weeping Willow.
I remember the first time our eyes met. Was it during the performance at Mourning Field Hall? I had heard whispers—rumors, really—of a majestic creature who had seemingly sprung into the spotlight overnight, delivering a dazzling performance in some long-forgotten tragic play.
The critics called it brilliant. Haunting. And, above all, tragically delicious.
The very next day, I placed an order at every flower shop in the area. Weeping chrysanthemums were in season, and I thought them the perfect choice—delicate yet bold, a fitting symbol of my unwavering devotion.
They were all to be delivered to your studio by noon, on Friday the 13th.
I even had to push past—bulldoze, really—what I can only assume was another devotee, equally determined not to be outdone by the circling vultures that flitted around you, day and night.
The flower shop owners would ask, "Are you sure you need that many? I mean, I appreciate the business, kind sir, but..."
Always the same concerned response.
I visited eighteen flower shops within a thirty-mile radius. Purchased forty-two dozen hand-wrapped bouquets. Each one accompanied by a single note:
—From your most devoted and secret admirer.—
I toiled over that note for hours, turning it over and over in my hands, wrestling with the words I longed to say. I debated signing my name. But what was the point? It felt as though we already knew each other. You, performing under the golden stage lights—and I, your loyal, spellbound audience.
The crows—no, vultures—were already circling.
But they didn’t matter.
That note was merely the first of many tributes.
Bouquets followed—peonies, red roses, and camillas. Each carefully chosen. Each meant to speak when I could not.
Then came the gifts. Jewels from every corner of the world—necklaces, chains, even leeches, all rare, all priceless. Imported. Exported. And offered.
Even this simple rope that now graces your lovely neck—see how it gains value the moment it touches your skin.
All gifts. All from me.
To you.
For months, the press captured photos of you—wearing my gifts, holding the flowers I had so carefully hand-picked for you. I clipped every article that mentioned your name. Every headline, every review, every whisper printed in ink. My collection of holy relics.
And when a critic dared to speak ill of your performance— I hunted him down. I cornered him in a dark alley after your breathtaking performance at Elysian Field.
I confronted him—on your behalf. I told him everything I knew you wished you could say.
And the only response he could give was a drunken procession of degrading verbiage.“Worst quack to upturn the stage” and “overrated,” he called you. “Untrained,”“lacked elegance.”
I made sure he didn’t speak much after that. Not publicly, not at all.
And when the headlines read: “Famed Critic Dies in Tragic Mugging Outside Theatre”—I sent you a ring.
Enclosed with a note, to let you know: I did this for you.
I apologized, of course. Apologized that your name would have to share space with his in the morning papers, that your brilliance would momentarily take a backseat to a man so thoroughly unworthy—a degenerate.
But I promised it wouldn’t be for long. Soon, the world would remember only you.
…
I received no response. Not to the letter and not to my proposal.
Instead, my hope withered away—like the leaves from the weeping willow littering the ground beneath your feet. Their slumber, disturbed as you tiptoed the shady, patched ground beneath the weep of the willow. I once imagined us standing there together, hand in hand. Dancing the night away.
But you let the press and the police twist our relationship, turning something sacred into something scandalous. You let them taint our secret connection. I couldn’t believe what they were saying about me in the press. I told myself it wasn’t you—it couldn’t be.
Surely your team, your handlers, your inner circle had influenced the decision to come forward publicly—to denounce me as a stalker.
The private note I had written you—words meant only for your eyes—now sat in the hands of detectives. “Evidence,” they called it. Evidence for a growing murder case. Me— now a prime suspect in the murder of that nobody.
I sent you Sweet Williams, forget-me-nots, and lilies. Each one, once again, carefully chosen—meant to say all the things I could not.
But still… no response.
And now, the flower shop owners were coming forward. Speaking to reporters. To the police.
They said I was—
“Crazy.”
“Obsessed.”
“Unhinged.”
They twisted my devotion into something diseased, infected, sick. Something grotesque. As if love—pure, relentless love—could ever be a crime.
I didn’t understand. I needed to speak with you. To confront you. To hear it—from your own lips, In your own words—
Why?
But you were always surrounded. You cancelled your performances for the rest of the year. You limited your public appearances.
And I…
I became increasingly agitated—frustrated, desperate—that I couldn’t reach you. Your name, once everywhere, vanished from the headlines like smoke. Like a bird whose wings had been clipped.
After everything I’d done—to protect you, to elevate you, to win the world’s gaze for you— you simply disappeared from the limelight, like a candle whose flame had been snuffed out.
Angrily, I asked myself, “Why?”
So, I sent my final bouquet—just a dozen this time. Chrysanthemums. No note. No message. Just a quiet promise that I was coming.
And now you hang—swaying gracefully in the branches of the willow tree. Nature nipping at your heels. A tree, barren and stripped of its leaves—all because you refused to return my affections.
And yet even now, as the color fades from the tips of your fingers and the digits of your toes— ombreing to the beautiful hue of someone deprived of oxygen—your beauty prevails. My Beloved.