Perspective from a Boy in Love
She is anything but simple. Yet, she is nothing extraordinary. She has convinced herself that the only option, to withdraw, would satisfy her and the people around her. She takes comfort in sipping a warm drink, and she puts more focus into taking sips than when glancing at me.
I try to bring her to life, by exploring the trail of her sides. I trace the hourglass figure with my hands, a map she doesn't find worth adventuring. I take her face, and the warmth recedes when I find her hands. Her hands and feet are ice. I know this because on rare occasions, she tries to seek the warmth in me. I can only hope I provide a meager amount.
There are days when her fluting voice fills the interior of my car, and her contagious laughter rubs off of pallid people-them, waiting like clay to be molded by the skillful artisan.
There are other days when she sits, not quite brooding, but a silent snow storm. She becomes the sidewalk weed. Beautiful, yet restricted by adversity, in her internal torment. I wish I could prune her, place her in rich soil, where she could grow among the fertile abundance. Protect her in a vase, shadow her with sunlight. She is no where near delicacy. She prefers the cracked vase, surrounded by the shattered glass.
She alternates between wanting to be touched and inching away from my graze. The latter takes place the most often. She indulges me with long, elaborate stories full of meaning and brilliance. I know nothing about her. I only know these stories, these scattered memories of hers. I know she thinks philosophically, questioning everything, analyzing details, finding faults and either loving them or hating them. My intelligence level suffers an impeccable blow in comparison. I am not humble. She sometimes asks for my opinion, just so that she can act the opposite.
Sometimes, she confides to me. She has periods where she becomes comatose in the concept of thinking. Her mind blank, void of emotion, and incapable of releasing her gaze from the window. She is truly empty, but she fills me. She does.
I want to worship her, but she doesn't believe in idols. Instead, I try to comfort her, but she doesn't believe in love; She believes in blankets. I'm not sure if I should hold her hand, only to have her remove it again. How can I attempt to fill the vacancy she craves for, her only moments of peace?
I need to be night sky, filling her in as she morphs through the crescents of the moon. I must plunge and take notice that there is nothing, no one to save me. Only then may I find how to solve her riddles, admire her crevices, correspond to each contradiction in the make of her. I am whole when she is piece, I am piece when she is whole. We can manage, as long as we evade the illusions of hope.