I want meeting you to be like falling in love. Like a flame leaping from the end of a match. Maybe we won’t notice for a few days. By then the fire will be a warm glow that begins deep inside us and seeps through our translucent skin. We will be like paper lanterns, we will cause the shadows to dance around us.
Weeks later we will both write about the moment. I will write about the small sound of surprise that escapes from your lips. How your fingers brush against my palm for a moment and the warmth of your skin catches me by surprise. You will write about the faint pink that creeps into my cheeks. You will write about how I duck my head, and you can’t quite make out the colour of my eyes.
I love the way one side of your mouth curls up higher than the other when you smile. The crinkles at the corners of your eyes remind me of the pukeko’s tiny footprints, spiralling closer and closer to heaven. I want to tell you the story about the pukeko. I want to leave a trail of tiny, intricate footprints across your skin.
I will brush the hair out of your eyes, and tell you that you saved my life. You will laugh, your eyes dancing. Then you’ll touch my cheek with your hand and say, “You wanted to live.”
Everything I know about love I have learnt from you. Your words have become imprinted on my fingertips. With every breath I inhale the rhythm of your voice. I want to touch your lips as you speak the language I already know by heart.
You leave so suddenly, I barely have a chance to say goodbye. I want to run after you, I want to say “please, wait… next time it might be too late.”
Later I will turn over your photo, and feel the heat of your image against my palm. I will leaf through books about gemstones, searching for a name that describes the colour of your eyes. I will write lines of poetry on the back of bus tickets and envelopes, and then I will tear them into tiny pieces and watch them flutter to the ground.
I will run into you occasionally, walking down the street or browsing in a bookshop. We will stop for a few minutes, talk about the weather, your latest book, a mutual friend. Sometimes you will look at me as though you want to ask a question, but then you’ll shake your head, and look away. I’ll murmur something about how busy everyone is at this time of year, and you’ll agree - you really should be getting on.
As I walk away it will feel like tearing up the most beautiful poem I’ve ever written. I’ll resist the urge to glance back over my shoulder. I’ll look straight ahead, and try to smile.
Over the years I will forget the words we exchanged, and the poems I scribbled on scraps of paper. But every so often you will catch me by surprise as I turn over a book and see your smile, captured in black and white.
Suddenly I’ll be aware of every movement of my heart, my arms shaking slightly. My hands grieving the loss of your touch.
Posted by Fionnaigh at May 30, 2003 08:01 PM