You play violin. You played your first note when you were thirteen, sitting in the front row of your sixth grade orchestra class. Your teacher told you that you had potential, compliments to your pitch and bow arm. It was always "You have a good ear."
Hasn't been long since then, has it? You're just a little older now, but I can't say I recognize you anymore. I apologize if my phrasing seems critical, I believe it's a good thing. The person I knew before no longer looks like the girl from 5th grade. You stopped trying to fit in; stopped trying to be like "the cool kids" because you realized that their version of "cool" was nothing like yours. That their "cool" doesn't fit you. They told you that rigidity and cruelty was attractive. "Maybe if you weren't so sensitive, we wouldn't have to hurt you." But blades don't heal wounds, do they? A sharp tongue turned to silence and caution, not out of cowardice, but out of maturity. You were forced to realize that those who argue are the ones that never listen; those who hiss and spit are truly poisonous. I remember who you were, raising your voice because that was the only way they could hear you; not that they'd listen either way. Pulling against invisible bars and restraints because you were imprisoned in, not only your own, but the words and restrictions of people that were meant to bring you freedom.
You've always loved music. I'd listen to you brag about how many songs were on your playlist; from blues to classical to variations of rock and hip-hop. There's this sense of pride and superiority when you list your favorite songs and artists, always so cocky with your talents. I love that about you, among lists of other things.
You like dancing. Believe me, my intention isn't to compliment the way you dance, but a bad move never stopped you from moving nonetheless. You don't think you're a good singer, you've told me. I can neither confirm or deny; you'd always turn me away when I asked to hear. I'd imagine that your singing voice is beautiful, same as it sounds when you speak. Soft, smooth, like fresh honey and chamomile. We'd stay up on the phone, day and night, sometimes moons straight. But I'd never complain. It was enough to hear your laugh, imagine you smiling behind your phone whenever I'd crack a joke or say something stupid. Your sense of humor is confusing, but never bothersome; for your joy brings my own.
I love when you call me names. You'd say baby or honey, and I'd swear nothing could ever make me happier. "Honey". To hear the sound of a word speak its own name. The affection is both old and new. Old fashioned but rare. You'd take a picnic over the movies, unless it's horror because you like to feel protected. You pick flowers and put them in your hair during gym, whenever your class would go out into the field. Sometimes you'd pick me my own and I'd have it by eighth hour. They were never consistent, though; your gifts. They came randomly. I'd like to think that it's because you hold appreciation for the element of surprise, that you find joy in seeing someone smile because they didn't expect to have something to smile about that day.
But that's who you are, isn't it? A gift. The kind that's only given once every generation. Rare as the blood moon, but more valued and cherished. A precious lunar eclipse.. You are the sun. You hold the moon, illuminating each mark and crater with just a smile. Few have known you, not many have been close to you. Close enough to see, of course, and admire. Some even scorned by your heat. But have they seen it as I have? Have they been cut by your rough edges? Have they tripped from your mountains or drowned in your tears? Have they gazed at your stars and smelled your flowers? Fallen victim to your eyes? Your eyes- those that have explored the galaxy herself, those that have become none other than just that. It's safe to say that I'm one of few to have known the universe.
I beg you pardon my tendency to ramble. Basically, all I'm saying is I love you.
