Memories

I was always looking at her. Looking into her eyes. It was like watching a slow burning candle flicker due to the wind. I knew they were filled with terror and sadness, and I searched desperately for the smallest trace of happiness. I don't recall ever finding any. I tried sharing how I felt about her, that I was going to try to make it better. She would always cut me off. Her hoarse voice put an end to any of my attempts. She used to say that within her chest there lived a "heart of thorns." Can you believe that? In addition to the incessant hell that was her life, she still had time to read poetry. Apparently that phrase can be found in one of the books she had. Her collection was kept in a denim backpack  she carried almost religiously. I got the feeling that it was important to her to be able to keep those bound verses with her. I never did find out why. Anyways, when I got the nerve to tell her, I looked over at her and whispered, "I will try my best to persuade some beautiful roses to come out of hiding in your heart of thorns." I think she could tell that I loved her without me having to say the exact words. I do not know what became of her. I cannot tell you if she lived or died or if she lost that terrible sadness so evident in her eyes. But I can tell you a fact I am very sure of: I loved her. I did. During the time I was with her, albeit a whirlwind of trouble and fear, I fell deeper in love with her with every look into those eyes. With her smudged eyeliner, and that tangle of unkempt hair, and her tears soaking my tee shirt. Everything. She was the center of my world, and although that seems incredibly cliché and hormonal and idiotic, I can admit that this is what it felt like. And I dream of her still.