He was something unattainable,
like the concept of beauty or perfection,
you tried to hold it, embrace it, but
somehow his skin was made of smoke,
and each time I tried to hold him tightly
in my hands, he slipped through the
spaces between my fingers.
And all the girls spoke of him,
as if he was a mystery hiding
behind those autumn colored bangs
that cascaded over his gentle emerald eyes.
I said he was an anomaly, though
they didn’t understand what I meant.
The thought of him opening his chest
and exposing that heart of his, well,
that was unheard of.
Until he met me.
I challenged him, never falling for
those sweet words that were like a
record on repeat, no, he knew that
I was different from those other girls.
The flowers, kisses on the cheek, and
songs sung over worn strings worked
on other girls, but I made him search deeper.
Deep down into his soul, he searched
for words that he wanted to whisper,
not the words he imagined I wanted to hear.
He spoke from his heart, which I found out
was tired, injured, but beating sweet rhythms
just to continue searching for the most perfect
words imaginable, that would be worthy
of gracing my ears.
He became more of a solid entity,
while he stood there holding my face
in his warm and calloused palms,
whispering, warming my heart with such
genuine and gentle words,
“Please, don’t give up on me.”