A summer that lay in memory's wake, still brighter than the melancholy squalls of tedious present, I devoured words that spelt my soul in detail, from sentence to serif, spilling from lips almost too familiar for comfort. Her breath was hot on my cheek, and she tasted of a rare, undiscovered fruit I had never known, and would never taste again. We spoke without tongues, felt each other miles apart. One night of bitter beauty, lasting an eternity, shorter than a kiss.
That was love, I know. Now I've shed naiveté and embraced the jaded faux-intellectualism and faux-maturity of faux-adulthood. And I could write her off as a hormonal pipe-dream, the ideal girl who barely existed. Still...she pulls at my mind, ever so slightly. The occurrences are less frequent, but I feel them in full. Were she mine, were we to escape the prison of time's grasp on that blessed meeting ground where sand met sea and lips met lips, were we to cultivate the freshly planted seeds of infatuation rather than having them cruelly torn out by their still-green roots, how would we have fared? Would we have failed, like so many of my generation do, citing love found too difficult to keep up and love unknown too difficult to attain? Or is there a sort of protection in blooming early, before twenty-something disenchantment can settle in and eat away at your tolerance for the one thing still beautiful, still fantastical in a world too old for magic and cliché?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment