I loved her in every sense of being. I loved the way she curled her toes when it was cold and the way her nose crinkled when it was hot. I loved her smile when she rolled her eyes at my horrific jokes and laughed at my attempt at being humurous in vain attempts to soothen her bruised soul.
She breathed music, sweated music and when she cried, she cried tears of notes banged out of drums and coaxed out of guitars and rolled out of pianos that created beautiful songs that could last forever and would last forever until I had the courage to get over my sense of pride and comforted her & told her it was all going to be okay and that I was sorry even though I wasnt, even though I am, now.
She sung every morning and every night and not a minute was dull with silence or without her harmonies echoing through the walls of the house, shaking all the ghosts out. She sang so loud that birds over the horizon would stop and sing back and she would smile and go back to humming underneath her breath because nothing made her happier than being at one with the world and at one with the melody in her heart. But that wasn't enough.
And nothing made me happier than being able to carress her smooth cheeks under the rough surface of my thumbs as I whispered to her stories of how one day, things were going to be okay. And she smiled through her mascara stained tears, faintly whispering back that she believed me, and that things were going to be okay. Well I didn't plan on being a liar, and I didn't plan on having to wake up at 2 in the morning to wash my own tears away with the constant echo of her voice in my ear.
'I believe you.'
Believing me wasn't enough.
And now the piercing whispers in the twilight hours of day aren't humming a lullaby but an early goodbye and a late apology and I can't help but go through the pictures in my drawer of when things were okay, for me anyways.
I could hear the smack of her father's firm and strong hand against her soft and slim cheeks in the midst of the twilight, and I could taste the desperation of her morther taring at her plate. I could see her morther's smile, small but definite and I could feel her hand on my shoulder keep me from stopping her dad, I could feel her hand make me a pathetic coward and everything that I swore I'd never be, I could feel her hand make me a murderer.
That night she went driving alone and I couldn't do anything about it. There were very few moments where I've seen her like that... so broken and without faith or light in the crevices of her body. In those moments where she needed someone the most, she became the most independent. She didn't need me to fix her, she insisted. She's fine on her own, and she knows what she's doing. So I let her drive, thinking, hoping that she'd come back. So I went inside and laid in our bed with my hair tossled and my forehead wrinked in worry. Eventually I fell asleep.
I woke up expecting to see her tangled blond mess of hair in front of my face, and her slender body pressed against mine, but instead a knock on the door greeted me, and immediately I knew something was wrong. I didn't know what I was expecting, but a thought that fell asleep in the back of my mind had risen, and I knew that the police were at the door, waiting to tell me about the how she died. I opened the door, and wasn't at all suprised at the sight in front of me, because I was right. They bullshiited a story about how she must've been a wonderful person, and how they were sorry for me. I didn't believe half the shit they said. She was desperately beautiful and intriciately woven together by a thin string, but she was no where near wonderful. She was always stressed, and cracking at the edges. She was tired all of the time and her eyes showed it to strangers on the street like it was nobody's business. I don't know why but I loved her anyways, and now I'm stuck with the memories of me and her lying on our thin mattress on the floor drinking coffee and talking about life over the noise of our air filtration system that we bought with all the money we had to hide the smell of smoke in the air and the nicotine in our lungs.
We never had it easy but I never said we had it bad. And now our unconvential love story is being flushed down the drain with all of my sorrow. I really want her to stop talking to me. This apartment is heavy with her ghost in it's walls and my attempts of shaking her out are weak and tiring. I've heard everything she's said in the past months following her death and I swear, that I'll stop drinking tomorrow, and I'll throw away the shit filitartion system and I'll leave this place forever for her. I just hope everything goes right and I'll see her soon.
I'm sorry.
