If I Were To Tell You Another Story

If I were to tell you another story, Spring would be here. I have always loved Spring and the rebirth of nature. It often feels like an orchestration of charm and beauty, with a dash of love. Before we sort through the nomenclature of what exactly we are, I would whisper in your ears that I belong with you during our first walk at the marina. The sound of the water slapping against the rocks and the air beating against my cheeks would remind me that happiness graces me with their presence.

If you could listen to my heart, you would know that I have fallen into spaces of your heart. This unblinking self examination of what is simmering inside left to fate with nothing left to lose. I would tell you that I am quite in awe of your accent; you'd smile and whisper about how mine resides in the interesting columns of life. It feels like dancing on love’s slippery slopes without a care in the world. 

We would be laying on the rooftop patio, counting the constellations as the dawn slowly chases away the night. You would tell me how they look like our two hearts in unison. I would smile and hold your hand. Saying with an approving glance and your almond eyes obediently twinkling on, you would remind me of what it feels like to be loved in threes. Your sweet nothings have thrown a lustre over me and they ring forever in my ears. Hold me in your kind arms; tell me that you are lovesick, and that only my warm hugs can sustain you.

I would tell you how much I have longed for this, and how I always saw you in a different light. Skirting my feelings, wandering through freeways of doubts- which were like a separate county- and thinking about how you could unspool my heart. You would remind me that we should celebrate each other and live on love. Your words in their essence, purely honest, kindled the dying wick I had harbored year after year

If I were to tell you another story, it would be a chilly November afternoon. And I would be reminded of your departure after Autumn's end. Wilted roses, and broken mirrors left in the place where you once stood and made me happy meals. You are still remarkable. For several days, I would bear about me a memory of your touch, and the many solemn hours we spent in the embrace of the night. If you could feel what I feel, you would know that I still belong with you. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular amplification of your absence; of how I hurt, beauty weak in the flickering light. The foundations of our love have finally dissipated and although it was confusing and painful trying to sort through the swinging cacophony of disturbing emotions, my ode to you still remains the same: you are always the part of me that matters.