When he walks, it’s with the resolution
of authority and the delicacy of grace. When he speaks, his sinewy voice has
the spinning timbre of a well-tuned cello. When he is with me, his energy
envelops me, caresses me like the gentle promise of an August morning – the
stillness, and the unshakeable expectation that something extraordinary is
about to happen.
Thus he is in my eyes. But like in any
tragic story, he is only a friend.
Perfect love stories – ours could be
one, if only I had the strength to pick up the pen and write upon the blank
canvas stretched between our lively, yearning hearts… Not a day passes when
this cloying line of my own hasty creation does not cross my mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment