The Book Of Quotes

XI

We were the happy faces of a saltwater-stained yearbook page come to life. We were the kind of strawberry sweet that makes your teeth hurt —
the sweaty hand holding and hurried kisses of every teenager's fever dreams. We walked by the graffiti, spattered rock which was smoke stained and blackened with desire —
and down the stony path, to where the meadow met open air.
Here is where I took him
that windswept October afternoon, when the sunlight was honey dropping from the sky into our open palms.
Here, the slumber of the forest is interrupted by he live wires,
the warning signs (do not touch),
the shards of beer bottles underfoot and the lingering scent of smoke.
We lay on the rocks, just close enough to the edge of the cliff for it to feel dangerous. I bit his lip and he sighed into my neck, and all the birds flew away.
We were in love —
or at least that's what we told everyone —
and on days like this one, it felt like the truth.
Our love,
I thought —
wrapped up in him —
could burn down this forest,
and we would laugh.
On the way home, we saw the future waiting for us like a long white road ahead.
Our entwined hands swung back and forth, counting down the seconds, until the promises of forever would turn sour on our tongues, and time would make liars of us both.
But the day was sweet
(the bees sang with hope),
and I had no reason to worry.
Then winter whittled down the autumn days until the sun was forced to surrender to snow-laden clouds.
And he grew tired;
he grew distant.
I could feel him slipping through my fingers, and my heavy bones could t carry him back to me.
I was sleeping in hospital beds, and he was smothered by outside expectations.
And I could see him becoming afraid but he never told me why.
and it ate him from the inside until he was dust on the wind.
We lasted three more seasons, and when autumn returned both of our hearts were shattered things.
After he left,
I could still feel his breath in my ear,
his lips on my ribs,
his laughter ticking my forehead.
I tried to wash his fingerprints from my skin —
and within the depths of the splintered sunlight, I begged the river to take me home.
Months walked by me,
and I watched them go.
I was a sketch left unfinished,
an outline of a girl who was once painted in love.
Five months after he left, I woke up at 3AM,
because I could feel the moon staring at me.
("Was it real?" it whispered.)
I crawled across my bedroom floor to the closet where I'd hidden away all the photos of us.
I saw his face and ripped it in half.
("It was real," I whispered.)
"He was real."
Today I waked to the cliff and ran my fingers through the air at the edge of the world,
where he's breathed life into me for the first time,
and I closed my eyes,
and let myself remember.

-Nadia Haitham