When Five Fell
The morning is when she lingers. It’s before the world wants anything from her and that’s when she’s most beautiful. It’s true that not many saw her like that but I can’t say I was the only one. Even though we each have our own beginnings, mornings like this were shared between us all.
She used to tell people that it was like the world was drawn with a dull piece of charcoal. That was before me. Now that she sees things my way, everything makes a little more sense. This is me. If I’m meant for anything, it’s to show her the world. Is that so bad?
The quiet morning like the many before it, calm and comfortable, but comfort can terribly blinding. The difference with this particular morning is in a call. She smiles, for who? I can’t see anymore.
She tells me she wants to be a raindrop. She doesn’t mind falling as long as she’s not alone and raindrops are never alone. She always had a new story to tell me: today it’s about being a raindrop. I wish I could’ve been there cause stories aren’t always enough and words can only go so far. This is me. Sometimes I wonder if she’s still talking to me or if I’m just eavesdropping. It used to be everyday, sometimes for hours, sometimes for minutes. Healthy relationships are based on communication but her words however sweet and real sounds so distant and now, they float pass me effortlessly as if they were meant for someone else.
She must know what she does to me; her every touch, every time she holds my hands, every time she hold me close. This is me. If you hold my hand I’ll be yours forever. A simple promise, that’s all I can offer. Is it enough? It may be too late for me, it may be too late.
Anyone can look from a distance. A stranger can look from a distance, what’s so special about that? But, to know her scent is something else. It means we’ve been close, closer than anyone else. I dare say I’m lucky but when she doesn’t want me, when she’s away and it’s just her scent with me, I can only feel forgotten. This is me, left behind. Am I the stranger now?
There are those nights when it’s just two of us and she softly hides in her own thoughts when only one thing seems to melt the cold silence: a kiss. This is me. Ask me what the perfect day tastes like and I’ll say her lips. And she was my first kiss, it has to mean something, something sure and true because a taste of a pure kiss can’t be shared. It’s the dreadfully romantic idea but there can only be one. The question is, am I her only one? I’m afraid the truth will break me, but her kiss is convincing: I’m not her only one.
She said she wanted to be a raindrop and today it finally broke us. She’d found her own to fall with, her own to fall for.
Today, she was a raindrop.
Try mouthing the words along with the video.