We were married on November 8th, the coldest day I could ever remember. He never knew it, but that was the unexpected day I finally understood the definition of love. Prior to then, my heart ached and yearned for a desire that I couldn't describe if I owned a dictionary of a billion words.
I wore red, a color that never suited me, really, but it matched the toned leaves that drifted to the ground. He wore a sweatshirt; a dark grey color that reminded me of the silver lining his eyes. Our vows were simply nuzzled kisses, but if wanted I could easily graph out enough words to fill up page after page of his extraordinary laugh; his adversity that drew me in since the first glance.
I didn't know it then, but the flower that budded inside would surely crinkle-- not under will, of course, but through the dreary days and the frostbitten nights; wilted petals complimented the season, after all.
On a park bench we sat silently and dimly, as nostalgia pulsed through our veins. The familiar vibrant green that once cradled us now flaunted itself- tattered and unfamiliar.
I like to say he changed me for the better, but others walked out of my life as soon as he walked in (waltzed in, if I'm being honest). All pain and agony that lived inside me, even the fresh wounds that stung excruciatingly, ceased. He coaxed and tamed my death-ridden world, like an angel of hope-- but still, perhaps fate is fate.
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I Wore Red
RomanceTrue love isn't something you stumble on every lifetime. Deep connections are made and bonded over time, and can't be broken by distance or death. What happens when love older than time is challenged by deep rooted hatred and pain?
