There’s a photo I saw once. It’s of a girl who would remind me that she would prefer to be called a woman.
She’s back-lit and front facing. Well, mostly. She’s kind of looking down and off to the side. She looks mildly amused. It kinda makes you wish you were the one doing the amusing.
That photo struck me, and stuck with me, for some reason.
It looks warm, if that makes any sense.
I can almost feel that sun, as the smell of coffee – purchased from a new shop espousing sustainable beliefs – wafts.
I briefly wonder what can be seen through the door behind her. Urban sprawl? Suburban nap?
Sometimes the best views are on the roads not taken.
She’s got plans for the day. For us.
Things I don’t really care about, but want to see reflected in her eyes.
Places I never would have dreamed of going.
But I go.
Because it’s much easier to twist my arm when you’re holding my hand.
It’s a day made for montages.
I walk her home.
Perfectly-placed curls fall.
The softest lips are the hardest to ignore.
She closes the door.
The sun gets up long before we do.
I eventually leave.
I’ve got plans for the day. For myself.
Things I don’t really care about now, because they won’t be seen through her eyes.
I think she’s the kind of woman who, if she left you whole, and returned a mere half, you’d still take her back because love isn’t much into accounting, you know?
Because we can’t dance to chained melodies.
Because it is more important to be resolute in who we are than in what we do or say.
And because maybe.
Sometimes that’s just enough.