This isn’t love but it still feels nice
With these immaculate and warm insides.
Never once stopping
Like a shark in its sleep moving just to breathe.
This is what you call “free?“
Harsh as it seems, maybe “love” means being naïve.
The pure and eager part of me, like pledging some sorority,
Is losing its virginity in some bathroom during “hell week.”
- Roar
She was smiling.
Her tender lips were curled upwards at an angle which said much, but revealed nothing. They were painted with a layer of red lipstick, the type that is saved and used only for the most important of occasions. I smiled back.
I couldn't see her very clearly. The clouds were grey and shadowed above us as we stood staring at each other. They weren't dramatic. They didn't stretch across the sky with a shade that warned you to shelter. They were just grey clouds, filtering the light and stealing the warmth and leaving us with the sharp chill of the wind.
Despite the cold, her cheeks were rosy and warm and breathed colour into her porcelain skin. She was still and quiet, but her eyes were expectant. They were inviting, pushing me on to say something. I didn't. We just stood there, her outline mirroring mine, her soft brown hair weaving their way towards her shoulders.
She was fading now. Not only from my sight, but from the remnants of my memory too. I could barely remember her voice, and she was refusing to speak. I still remembered that day though. I still remember why she was smiling. That was enough for me.
I put the photograph back into my pocket and stepped back onto the gravelly pathway which crunched satisfyingly under my worn black shoes. The cemetery isn't a nice place to stay for too long anyway.
