My eyes followed her as she walked around the room, the way her hips shifted as she moved, the way her hair was casually messy but beautiful, her young, knowledgeable green eyes, her soft lips that smiled when she spoke, the creamy, tanned skin that was visible through the spaces between the buttons on her white blouse when she bent over, the silver necklace that bumped against the hollow of her throat as she walked. Everyday when I saw her after a night of being without her, it shocked me again and again how beautiful she was, every night I forgot exactly what she looked like, because no memory or picture could possibly compare. When I first laid eyes on her every morning, it was like seeing her for the first time, again again. Every morning when I first saw her sitting on her desk brought an acute sense of relief, like taking that first gulp of oxygen after holding your breath for too long. She was my oxygen. I would smile for a moment as I looked at her, taking her in, then I would settle into my familiar wooden chair at my familiar wooden desk, take out my beloved notebooks and pens, and begin writing. Always about her.
YOU ARE READING
Her
Short StorySome say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed. It's the heart afrai...
