I am undoubtedly sorry for this because despite my every attempt to be true, fierce, and honest, I as the writer of this short trivial piece, will fail you.
When she came into view and sat down in my car, the feeling that said I was right where I was supposed to be washed in and around me and brought a smile to my heart that only mirrored slightly on my face. I hoped that she felt the same.
I could go on about the specifics of the night but for you, the reader, it doesn’t matter. What I want to tell you is how beautiful she was, how beautiful she is. Even though it’s been some time since I’ve seen her, every strain of thought somehow winds itself back to her.
I could tell you in every cliché how perfect she was. I could say that her imperfections were perfect for me. I loved maybe a subtle scar on her face, or a birthmark. She could have had a tattoo visible somewhere on her that she regretted. And we laughed when she told me the story of how it came to be.
But this has nothing to do with loving imperfections. It has nothing to do with perfections either. It has everything to do with her. What was her, what is her, and what she will be. I thought of everything I don’t know about her. Every moment in her life from the time she crawled on floors to learning to tie a shoe, to learning to drive a car has changed her into who she is now in front of me. Every exchange, conversation and action affected her and made her into who she was underneath. And although this can be said about anyone, even myself, it was her that somehow walked into that place at the exact time that our paths would cross.
They say there are chemicals in your brain that trigger the feelings of love and lust. And I don’t argue that at all, I’m sure it’s all true. But how does that lessen the impact of someone who makes those chemicals rage inside your mind?
I told you at the start that I would fail you as a writer. And true to my word, I have. I’ve set out to describe the one you love. The one I love. The one, maybe, I will love. But songwriters, poets, and artists will always fail trying to pin down love because it’s only when you can understand, explain, and define something, it loses significance and meaning. I can’t explain love, I will never understand it, and I will flail in attempts to define it. We can only give examples in fiction.
But when I look at her, when I was there in her presence, laughing and sharing stories, I’d like to think that for one fleeting moment that passed by so quickly, I saw love. She was, she is, she will be.
ZinnWrites 