“What makes you write the things you do about her?”, asked Time.
A long sigh escaped my mouth. How could I possibly even begin to explain that? I would need an inordinate amount of time to barely scratch the surface about you, and even then, it would not be time enough. The way you look when you are lost in your favorite book, and how you would rest those lovely cheekbones on your arm as you fell deeper into your story. The way your freckles would dance in the sun, and at night, would glow and create the most awe-inspiring constellations that any stargazer could ever imagine. The way you brush your hair when you are unsure of yourself, not knowing just how incredible you and your resolve are. Where could I even start?
“Well?”, Time asked again.
I thought again of all the times we shared, all the wondrous memories we created together. That day in the library when I dared to put my arm around you, even for a moment. The night you caught me staring at you, not at all your incredible beauty, but at you, and all the gorgeous things I saw in you that you never would have seen in yourself. The night I laid my head upon your chest, and listened closely to the humbling sound of your heartbeat. Each beat, each draw of breath, brought me deeper in love with that sound, and with you. And to this day, it amazes me that even now, despite the silence, I still find your heartbeat echoing in my own. I knew my answer.
“I write this way for many reasons,” I started. ” For one, it helps me stay in touch with the amazing feelings she made me once feel, hell, still feel. Have you ever met someone that made you question, well, everything? Who you were, what you believed in, what you’d stand for in your life? Secondly, because I am constantly finding new ways to say that three-worded phrase everyone wants to hear in their life. Maybe one night I write about her in her prom dress, and how humbled I felt in her presence. Or I try, in my flawed, human way, to describe what it felt like to hold her hand, or have her in my arms. It doesn’t matter if it’s an eight paragraphed story, or an eight word thought; every piece that I could ever hope to create is my attempt at telling her that I love her.”
“But lastly,” I said, my eyes growing dark, “I write because I cannot give her my love. It is through no fault of our own, but rather, the circumstances of our lives. And so, I write. I create these words to form the pillars of a colossal temple, for her, so that she may visit at any time, for this world can be cruel and unforgiving. I write, for her, vast libraries for her to fall in to, to get those adoring brown eyes lost in. I cover the walls with metaphors and similes for her to find solace in, as if I, in my imperfect form, can ever hope to capture her essence in words. When she looks at the floor, she will find literary gemstones that reflect her imperfect perfection, and when she gazes upon the ceiling, she can find the familiar pattern of her freckles guiding her on her path. If she were to stop and listen, she can hear the echoes of her laughter floating throughout the halls, and if she truly stood quiet, she could hear the faint murmur of her heartbeat, just as it echoes in my mind. I write, so that when she has nowhere else to turn to, she can come and visit me, as I try to express just how strongly and deeply she has moved my heart and soul. She can come to this shrine, in as many pieces as she may find herself, and become whole again. Can you ever come to understand something as precious as that?”
I turned, and looked to Time. “And when the day comes when you finally come for me, these pillars I worked so hard to create, will crumble to dust, as will everything else I have ever known. And from her temple, the dust of me that I poured into each and every word will whisper ‘I love you’ into the infinity of the universe, where it will echo for all eternity, as a constant reminder that for me, it was never over, and to her, my heart will always truly belong.”