When We Were Sixteen
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When we were sixteen, I didn't know what he would mean to me. I couldn't know that his pink petal lips would become my favorite taste, that the tremble of his eyelashes would synchronize to the tremors in my heart, that the curl of his fingers in my hair would become the safe harbor of my soul. That one day my world would be made of the memories he'd left behind -- the light strokes he'd press against the skin of my back as we fell asleep, the feel of his hair brushing against my neck, the soft huff of his laugh when I pressed my lips to the curve of his chin, the bronze of his eyes and the copper of his skin, the way he kissed me on a soft Sunday morning when I worshipped nothing but the body he blessed me with; I couldn't know about the coffee rings he'd leave in my car, how it felt to have his back pressed against my chest as I traced over rough paint and measured out the pieces of his psyche, what it was like to kiss him in the rain, hair plastered to our heads, or the way I'd feel when I watched him smile, watched him unfurl and bloom like a lily, and fell in love with the other half of my soul.
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