Love Is The Color Green

1

My first love.

I'll always describe it as boring.

Simple.

Forgettable.

I find it difficult to truly share how much his presence did something to me and how his smile could make the clouds shy and have the rain cease, just so the sun could peak and witness something beautiful.

It was ordinary, this love of mine.

Mundane.

Nostalgic.

As if remembering that solace wasn't a word, but a person. It was the kind of love that made me realize that I'd never know another home.

However, if anyone ever paused and bothered asking what my first love was like. I'd smile, as if my heart hadn't broken every time I woke up. As if my heart hadn't broken every time, the scent of petrichor touched my senses.

I couldn't tell a soul how I'd never regret another day, no matter what, because I knew it deep in bones, that all my lucky stars blew a fuse the day I laid my eyes on him.

I'd smile and say that it had been interesting.

Nobody ever really asks if background characters had the luxury of experiencing something as thrilling as infatuation. Much less love.

I, after all, wasn't memorable. I wasn't hard to look at, but I didn't leave heads turning. Slightly taller than average, curves that sat quietly under loose fitting shirts, with long black coils and brown toned skin that was just shy of dark brown sugar.

I think if I was to be assigned a name in some fictional world, it would probably be Mob C.

Hindsight had a talent of bringing a certain type of sobering clarity to what felt like an endless summer only ever seen through rose tinted glasses.

He was the usual pretty boy. He felt like my personal haven, where I was Hyacinth, and he, Apollo. I knew it, I knew as the gods knew the intricacies of creation, I knew that I'd love him, even in my death.

Isn't that how the story usually goes? He was genuinely beautiful, and somehow, he had no idea. To this day, I'm not quite sure what he saw when he looked at himself. I wasn't the type to fix someone, so I never took it upon myself to play the heroine.

It was my first love. How silly the notion that it would be my last.

Unrealistic.

Unreasonable.

Childish.

And what prey tell would have me so devoted to someone who had probably forgotten all about me?

His mere existence.

Thus, my first love was possibly comical. Rather nonsensical, but I wouldn't exchange the luxury of knowing what his presence felt like with anything.

Regular.

Lackluster.

Dull.

Unrequited, of course, but undoubtedly precious. It might have been a whim for him, but it had meant the world to me.

I think that, within itself is what made it a tragedy. I think that's why I often find unsent letters stained in this mysterious, transparent liquid that drips from my eyes.

It had to be stale.

It needed to be colorless. How else would I live with the hole left in my soul?