I fell in love with her not in the words she spoke but the way she said them.
Her name was Violet and she was one.
Purple bled under her sage eyes, seeping into her ivory skin like watercolors on paper.
a stream in a forest. not one put there by a malevolent god but one that has been bubbling up
And she claimed it her natural right.
Her laugh was singular.
It was earned over hours upon hours of sipping grape soda and talking over the cadence of
crickets, sitting in dewy grass on summer nighttimes.
My violet was a neglected journal. Her pages were hardly filled, each word a delicacy.
Every sentence she allowed me gave me a single detail in
Hers is one not known by many. Even shared with me over kissed foreheads through
warm whispers on hot skin, it is one not
I tried to figure her out. She was a puzzle with one too many pieces missing.
No matter how hard I tried, I could not put her back together. And at this,
she would smile.
I fell out of love with her not in the way she said things but the words she spoke.