Double Meaning

Her soul was made of things that would leave you breathless. She was bright, tender, her breath held the soft whisper of summer breezes, and her hands were running water. Her name tasted like a caramel coffee in your mouth, leaving traces of energy wherever it went. You could see galaxies in the world around her. Spinning, timeless, endless waves of passion coursed through her veins, giving her a drive that was unparalleled. There was one of her in this world, and once you met her you would never be able to forget her. But you would try. Dammit, you would try. You would try to forget the way she would turn and look at you over her shoulder, her smile visibly spreading from her lips to her eyes. You would fall asleep trying to drown out the sound of her laughter with music that just reminded you more of her. She brushed your jawline with the back of her hand once. Her head tilted as she looked you straight in the eyes and told you she loved you like she had never loved anyone. And it was true. She never loved the same way twice, never broke a heart because she wanted to, and never captivated slowly. She loved deeply and loyally, fiercely and fast.

She was the type of girl that held a hurricane in her chest. Every crack of thunder happened in the way someone's hands brushed her arm too rough, the lightning came in flashes mid kiss or sentences that made her collapse. Late at night her eyes seemed like tattered moth wings. They were drawn to any flame that might keep them warm, tired, almost like they would give up hope at any moment. Her veins flowed with turmoil and pain, a confusion that flowed through every ventricle of her heart, through her fingertips and back again.

And her memories…. Her memories black and white photographs stained with red. They played in her brain like an old movie reel. Never stopping, never slowing, always there. Like a feature film of never forgive, yet try to forget. The pictures push beyond viewing and into feeling, stirring the storm inside. It was the way his hands turned from silk to stone in one blow, teaching her that sometimes softness was just a form of foolery. It was all of the bruises no one could see, whether they were faded, hidden or years in the making. It was the running, the hiding, the constant fighting, from one place to another, keeping masks in every corner to make her game of make believe easier. She would never tell you about the past. It was too embarrassing for her. You would ask her about her favorite color and she would laugh gently and say off white. When you ask her why she will simply reply, “It was the color of a ceiling that sparked my wild imagination.” You find yourself asking her questions you’ve never asked anyone.

How do you handle anxiety?

I count to ten.

How does that help?

It makes hours seem like minutes.

When did you learn that?

Too young.

Suddenly you won’t want to ask anymore. You’ll want to pull her close and hold her tight enough that she forgets. You’ll see the moments her eyes turn dark more often than you’ll see them capture the light. When she laughs you’ll start to hear the moments her spirit is dying, for milliseconds at a time, but you’ll hear it. Loud and clear. Suddenly you’ll notice the things you didn’t want to in the first place. The way she avoids eye contact with strangers, how her body shys away from loud noises or dark doorways. She never talks over you, and she chooses her words carefully, like she’s trying not to upset the balance of nature. You’ll find her dancing when it rains, in the middle of the night, like her body is connecting with the way gravity pulls everything to the ground eventually. And that’s when you see it. Her soul is made of things that would leave you breathless.