Tuesday

Sometimes you could see the whole universe through her eyes. He thought about that sometimes, that spark that he loved so much, that moment that time stood still and he could see his entire future in her.
She loved sitting in trees. She'd climb up, away from everything, and just sit, silently. Sometimes he wondered what went on inside her head, but most of the time he prefered not to think about it.

He could watch her fading away before his eyes. She still had moments where the light that shone from her shot right into the heavens, moments where they'd lie on the roof talking about the future, about the present, but never the past. She'd look at her hands instead of at him. It was almost as if she believed that by living in denial of his existance, it wouldn't hurt so much if he were to leave.

She would steal the jasmine that grew over a fence on the way to her cafe. That's how he remembered her. She would pin it in her hair so when she looked around the scent would follow her. Afer a whole springtime of this, the two- her and jasmine became inextricably linked in his mind.


Reality was a vague concept, really. In one moment she'd be there with you, in the next second you could lose her to the stars, the moon, the wind in the trees, the chord progression that would break your heart with each step. If regular people experienced life in a sort of progressional line, she lived hers in a haphazard dance. She felt things stronger than most, I think. The first time she let someone into her house she would retreat into herself, as if she had accidentally given a stranger too much information, and was expecting them to walk away in disgust. She would hide so she wouldn't have to see them walk away. She never could see them stay and wait, the wall was already up.


It's a love to rival that of Keats. She always said that writing about things romanticises them. You can take a bad thing, any flaw that would usually render a person unstable, or insecure, or in some way socially inhibited, and when you write about it, it becomes a personality quirk, something that suddenly doesn't seem so bad. He asked her if those sort of personality traits weren't so bad, whether they were just moments in someones life.
 
She would always fold things. Wrappers, paper, tissues, clothes, leaves. When she felt awkward about saying something she would fold something, looking down so she wouldn't see a reaction that could hurt her.
 
He came home to her, with jasmine that she would have put in her hair, and in books, and on the windowsill in mis-matched glasses, and the resolution that he wanted to stick this out, he wanted her to see that he wasn't going to walk away from her.
 
The laundry was folded. The wall was permanant. She was gone.