What I Knew of Him was Beautiful

by Atiya R. Meadows

Love mishandled is the best way to describe it. It is subtle and at times tumultuous. You wait for the day that it will come. You beg for it to stay. Then you plead with it, for it to go.

It was late that night, nobody should have been out. But we were. We were out looking for something fun to get into. I guess, I was looking to laugh a little, and people watch, and maybe listen to some music.

We all had dreams and expectations then- goals and immature ambitions. Not yet totally hopeless or aware of the cycle of struggle that we would soon enter; we fell in love recklessly- caught feelings and dismissed the loyalty of friends we had known for years.

The impression he made on my heart was made in stone; formed, cemented down and sealed. His kiss: like warm butter-salty, thick and lingering. His skin of an indigo hue so deep and glossy; it was as if all the waters of the universe pushed all its beauty to the surface and he was the product of it. What I knew of him was beautiful.

As he danced around my mind to a melody composed just for him; it grew on me- that feeling of what it could be like. My handwritten letters increased. His responses, timely; and as a result, my feelings and thoughts of him intensified.

I became engulfed in the simplicity and realness of it all. And without even realizing it, I had found myself in love with not only him, but the thought of him and the possibility of him and I.

Soon enough and to my surprise, we became undone. He stopped talking while I kept listening. Until, finally, I found a way to move on, to push all thoughts to the back of my mind in order to make room for the many reasons to leave well enough alone.

Leaving well enough alone, well, it is never as easy as it sounds. Leaving well enough alone meant that the roar of his spirit, his scattered laughter, and the rigidness of his indigo skin would soon be cataloged in my mind among millions of other thoughts that come and go with ease and regard and everything about him to be only a memory.

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