poetic.

Love as told by RMP (taken from allofmytruth.tumblr.com)

It wasn’t cryptic. It was no secret. She knew. She knew, completely and totally, that she loved him. Not because when he appeared the sky above her erupted with fireworks or that when thoughts of him entered her mind her center would tremble with the wings of a thousand butterflies. It was not so theatrical, so complex. It was quiet and simple. It was that when he had food in his teeth or held to tight to an incorrect opinion she didn’t have the urge to forget him, to push him out. But to memorize him, how he was, in every moment, whether it be clumsy and wrong or peaceful and kind. And she knew this was love.

“You know I do.” She said, her eyes never leaving the rain drops racing down the windshield only to be crushed by the wipers.

“I do.” He sighed, his gaze dropping momentarily to his lap.

“And I know…. you don’t.”

“You do.” He admitted.

There was no need to speak. He would not understand how small she felt. How her were racing to escape her. How peace of mind would be nothing but a distance memory for years to come.

She would never comprehend why her feelings did not carry on, translate, infect him. He could not explain that she was the perfect summer day, the kind that makes you feel warm and taste sour lemonade on your lips but that he loved the winter, cold and harsh, but crisp and elegant. Romantic

He tried to tell her, “It’s not that you’re not beautiful-”

“I’m just not beautiful to you.” She said, her eyes finding him for the first time during this painful process.

“Yes.”

She felt complex then. One can’t grasp what it is to have butterflies, millions, rattling within you only to have them suddenly stilled, as if they were frozen by a rapid wind, stuck in their final poses.  When a sky filled with bursts of light is painted black and silenced with a swift movement.  It was cryptic and empty.

 Chaotic and dead.

But something came with the halt of the firework’s booms, the flutter of wings. Clarity. The beautiful girl found clarity.

“I have loved you. Beautifully,” she began, “and I can do no more than that. One day, on a cold, glum December morning, you’ll meet someone. She’ll be wearing white and black. Her lashes will be long, her cheeks and lips stained red and her hair will smell of smoke, snow and pine. You’ll love her, feel fireworks and wings. You will hold her face and say ‘please, please, please.’ And she will do the same for you.”

He nodded. “And you?” He was scared of the response but he knew his silence would kill him first.

She thought for a moment. She had felt love. While it was not returned, she felt honored; honored to have felt it at all. She felt proud, almost. As if she had uncovered a secret treasure. It was hers. That was enough, she thought. But she knew this would not calm the boy’s fears. It would not absolve his guilt or ease his nerves. So she breathed deep and exhaled her lies.

“I’ll find someone, too. He will be warm and golden with a playful yet innocent smile that is reserved for me. And we will be together and he’ll love me.”

“And you’ll love him?” He asked, hopeful.

She felt the tears rushing behind her eyes, as if a dam had shattered, releasing violent waves all through her. She bit her lips and clenched her hands around the fabric of her yellow skirt.

She smiled.

“And” she breathed “I’ll love him.”

His relief filled in every blank.

She looked out, the rain freezing into snow, quietly falling to the ground. Winter surrounds. There would be no going out tomorrow, the storm would rage, trapping them within.