Whirlpools

Meetings

She first met me under a sky which was rather aflame. The sun was setting and was about to hide behind the horizon, as it did so it transformed the gossamer clouds into the shade of fire altars - those which probably burnt in ancient Rome - those which survived even after the collapse of the empire. I met her under a sky which was almost like poetry - no wonder what we had seemed like verses to me.

When I saw her she was wearing an emerald green dress, which matched her soft green eyes which looked near yet resided in a land faraway from the reach of man - somewhere which only she knew - a clandestine covert of hers which she didn't wish to disclose. It was as if she was hiding a secret behind those eyes - probably sparkled escapades or tarnished moments - I couldn't figure it out.
The curiosity, the story composed in her was as though, twisting a knife within me. I wanted to be in her world, listen to her breaths, dance to the rhythm in her heart and sleep with her skin touching mine - I wanted her to compose me like a story which she would always keep close to herself.

In thay moment, I also realised her sadness. The utter grief which she carried covering her face like a veil. I yearned to brush it off her - see her like she must have seen herself once upon a time. But, in her eyes, I knew that she believed that some memories couldn't be restored to their former beauty and some classics were not meant to be altered.

The utter melancholy of the world seemed clear to me - those who lived and died to love were the ones who somehow, received the worst form of pain with love. Love, my love, is the most beautiful form of sacrifice and the most tempting version of sorrow.

And despite her sadness I approached her, with the two weapons in the war of friendship - an outstretched hand and a cigarette, which would burn out like the light of the day.