I suppose you could say I loved him, if you were taken with such things. In the many ways there are to love a flower at near bloom, ripe for the spring but still caught in winter sleeping.
And too, for the way his voice was like fast water over river stones,
not as grating or boisterous as thunder, but I felt the tenors down in the marrow of me.
Or, if I were cliche, it would be the ever-changing nature of his eyes, and I could try to explain them,
compare them with the uncut gemstones so overused, sapphire, topaz, aquamarine.
No. Treasures they may be, but they are lifeless.
My love had the eyes of the restless sky, in all her seasons, in all her moods; midday summer or winters' waning hours,
he was the spectrum.
At the root of it though, I suppose I loved him for what could not be seen,
could not be compared,
or understood by anyone who did not love him also.
He was kind, gentle as the kissing breeze. Bashful and shy, at first.
When he laughed, he lit up, like joy set a spark in him that glowed bright as starlight.
He tapped tunes on surfaces and you could hear the music.
He was cautious, and didn't presume, but he had a fire and passion that could engulf me, I,
I would happily burn.
He loved music and movies and when he told you about it there was not enough space in the room
to hold the excitement that radiated from him,
nor the adoration that poured from me.
He was a growing thing, he had planted his roots but still bent to the wind, and he was looking for himself in the rain.
He is still looking, and in the downpour, we search together.
Whatever is found, wherever it leads him, I will find him in the restless sky,
I will know him in the running water and the wind that holds me,
and I hope when he feels the homely warmth of the brightening sun,
he will know me also.
I hope he searches for that warmth.