To Whom it May Concern (ON HOLD)

Describing Blue

July 13, 2015
To whom it may concern,
It was there, a desperately stubborn part of me, some version of me. The part of me that knew what was happening must have been screaming. I should have been telling myself that I knew what this was. And I wasn't ready for it. Some version of love. Yet I told myself that, that part of me wouldn't let itself try, takes risks. Because I knew you. With the way you read, how your voice dropped until you were barely breathing. I knew how you laughed, how your eyes were devastatingly bright and crinkled at the sides so that they sparkled like stars from the darkness of your wrinkling eyelids. (Shit, look, I don't normally talk like this) I knew how you talked to me, gently, and you hung on my words like they were important. I had so many words for you. All the time. Gibberish, ideas, thoughts, colors. Insanity. I am a little insane. You said it was natural. That was probably a lie. Why did you listen to me? I talked about nothing. Everything. I loved talking to you. I love talking to you. It was wonderful. This sounds cliché, but cliché is cliché. I just want to be the main character in a love story, with you. Great. Okay. The End.
Who am I kidding,
This concerns you James.

September 1, 2014

I let my eyes wander, I've already lied, they wandered of their own accord. They seem to do that a lot. Up and into the bookshelves, over the spines, onto the spidery font that had curled up protectively against the covers. So you would know what the pages could give to you. My eyes reached desperately for these things and I pressed my hands into each other to keep them from reaching. I knew every single word on those pages, but never like this, never like you could meet them here. Not in that way. They could never mean the same thing. Yet it was all the same words. All the same feelings, a flirtatiously livid mumble jumble of emotion on paper. It was both infuriating and frustrating and incredible, all at the same time. Damn words. I leaned back on my heels and breathed in the musty pulsing scent of paper, of potential, of possibilities. Also of alliteration apparently, because when people use poetry you know they're serious.

"Can I buy you one?" Asked a voice from behind me. A voice that always sounded like it was on the verge of laughing. A voice that got deeper as he got excited. A voice that I could feel, mostly because his breath was on my neck.

"James." I laughed, I don't know why I laughed.

"You're too forward." I informed him and I felt his breath gust as he grinned.

"I try."

Pulling a book down from the shelf I turned quickly around and with either brilliant foresight or annoyingly impressive reflexes, James placed himself right in front of me. I brought the book to my chest protectively, and against all better judgment managed to be flustered as he gently pulled the hardcover out of my hands. James flashed me a long low smile and pushed the book under his own arm. I kept my eyes glued to the cover, he had done this so many times he knew exactly how to hold it as to not bend the book jacket. Which I hated, which he knew.
For some reason, likely caught up in the hope and vivid mystery that came with a bookstore, I knew my cheeks were warm. Considerably warm, probably from the cold wind outside, I was sure of that being the case actually but I kept my face turned down all the same.

James, after watching me a moment, and being secured in my submission, lifted the book up to look at it. Pride and Prejudice. Without looking up I could see the confusion that would form on his face.

"You already own this" he began, but I cut him off,

"Worn out," I stated.

"Worn out?" he repeated.

"Yes," I had read it so many times the spine was worn out. The pages were limp and the corners were folded, with love, they were folded. The cover was becoming fragile and as much as I loved that copy, the copy had lost the smell of book and just smelled like my hands. The copy I had spent years loving to pieces. It was a tough sort of love.
I had always know, eventually, the time would come for another one. If only for the peace of mind of myself, I had to be careful with these things. These fragile little paper hearts.