Of All The Girls I've Loved

Of All The Girls I've Loved

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Chilly autumn days, in the midst of fall foliage, seem much more romantic than a midsummer's night walk. Truth be told, however, the season never really matters. I can still imagine the warmth of happiness, pulsing throughout my body, simply by picturing those eyes, how they'd stare back at me in mutual silence, and the hands that gushed out dopamine by the millions. Of the girls I've loved, apologies for my artistic audacity for categorizing it as such, only one can fit that mold, for her stare was the first, and her hands the first. I couldn't stand the helpless calls that pouted from her lips. They were irresistible to the ear and inevitably more damaging to the heart. But I loved being the knight in shining armor, hellbent in all I considered love and affection. A fragment of my inner soul, the most unblemished and pure piece of them all, seemed suitable as a gift to her, and give so I did. The beginnings of my everything, I gave her the keys to. Finally, finally, were the words pacing through my mind.

We mimicked the antics of corporate America, in our exhaustion and longing for a mission field that suited our calling. How obvious it seems now, that our life beautifully clasped onto one another, in a harmonious union, a product of our dependence on a loved one. I'll chalk it up as a glimpse into the future but that doesn't make it any less desirable tomorrow.

If I could hear her melodic voice, slightly melancholic, yet full of joy, I would in a heartbeat. It's odd, remembering the beauty of spoken words that came out of her mouth, while being completely incapable of feeling the same peace of mind it provided. For that one moment, my body gave way to a lapse in control. I smiled, though I had no reason to, and laughed, because I didn't know how to react. All I knew was that she made me happy, no matter how evanescent it was.

There's something about her beauty I could never describe. You knew it was true beauty because it was a single grain for an army of pigeons. I'd like to believe science has it down to labeling almond-shaped eyes as a characteristic of pulchritude, just as an excuse so I wouldn't have to feel guilty for being absolutely smitten by the features she bore. In the most Hollywood of ways, I pictured myself shaking my head, smile on my face, and dumbstruck at how unfair her beauty had to be.

Because she was the first who had my heart, though nothing else, I relented in awe at the supposed figment of perfection present in my mind. Our stories paralleled and the storybook version of us would've became a New York Times Bestseller. That's the beauty of time and its passing. We can either gape at the fated love that the world places on a silver platter or recoil at the impossibility of convergence after such a deviation. Maybe we were simply the product of bad timing. I'd like to believe the timing hasn't yet passed.

Even for just five seconds, I felt at home. You offered no judgement, only adoration, and the perkiest of personalities. It was also a fairy tale, not a storybook, that conjured this fantasy. Truly, I believed I had found the exception, both in you and I. The hopes of chances and belief gave rise to a person who lost all sanity, in what surely proved to be a capsizing of my boat. Hindsight is 20/20 and it's incredible how clearly blurry my vision was.

I've loved a few girls, and I think I say love in a selfish hope to demean what's truly heartache, but all have been phantoms of difference, while also fleshly solid in similarities. My heart fears that the lost of one means the lost of the one. Because I've loved them all, a portion of me forever ingrains itself within the hands, voice, beauty, time, and belief that is the culmination of her. I have met her, and also have no idea who she is.

For now, my heart has had enough. It's tired of jumping at every buzz and broken at the joke that is now reality. Tomorrow, it'll feel slightly better, perhaps with a little more capacity for daydreaming stares and location altering decisions. One day, I'll regain the ability to lose tolerance during a morning commute, instead of replaying away the mistakes I might have made and letting people push me further into the corner of a putrid train. When that day happens, I'll know I'm okay again.

Of all the girls I've loved, none have loved me.

The Passage of Time

The Passage of Time

Wondering About Love

Wondering About Love