I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.*
Now all that remains are echoes of ancient conversations and whispers of drowsy lullabies. Because memories dull, as memories do, when time goes on. I had once hated it, the way it continued on, as if she was still here and everything was still okay. As if nothing interesting enough or important enough happened for it to falter. She was the epitome of interesting, the definition of important. But now I am humbled and appreciative of its regularity, its security - time will go on no matter what happens. I suppose you can say I found equal parts torture and salvation in time itself.
I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.
But I remember she had flowers on her boots and lashes that curled upwards. Her eyes were dark brown, so dark that they looked almost black. She was afraid of thunder and isolation. Her hair smelled of peppermint and she always had some poem, some song lyric dancing on her lips, waiting for the right time to emerge, bursting with personal emotions and relief. Her sky-scraping beauty was the least of her. *She was the moon who loved the Sun instead of the night sky.
I cannot remember how we met or when we first held hands.
I cannot fathom the names of her parents or her best friend's hair color.
But I remember that she - she was the meaning of Love.
*I do not love her, for she was Love herself.
Part two of this poem, Four Five Six, is posted as well!