September 09, 2013

My heart be still

When I was fifteen, I met a boy under a walnut tree. He had long dark hair and a face so much younger than mine. I was all bones and freckles under september sun, and he had only eyes for me. The first day, I didnt talk to him. The next, he sat before me in class and spent the whole hour turning his back to watch me, a soft grin on his face that said : I am going to chase you, and when I catch you, I will never let you go. So I began to run. We would wait for each other every morning at the school gate, and every night I would accompany him to the parking-lot, where a strange car waited for him, to take him back to the mountains deep where he lived. The town where we were was small and warm and grey and dirty, and there was nothing to feel, nothing to live. We would walk in the streets at night, running to the fast-food and the theater. Sometimes he would stay there in silence, watching me with flaming arrows in his eyes. He wanted to pin me to the wall, like a butterfly long seeked. He wanted to braid a leather cocoon and wrap me in it. I was afraid of him and I belonged to him, to his voice that matched my own like no one before.  

When I was eighteen, we left the small dirty grey town to see the world. We went to a red city in the south and watched the sun turn the river to liquid gold. All day I would wait, with flickering heart-beat, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the window, around the corner, in the hallway. And he came, always. He came to me at night through the scarlet stones and I welcomed him. We thought we were living a secret passion while our love was showing in every gesture and every word. We left, again. We spent idyllic days by the seaside, sleeping outside and swimming in green icy water. He had to go far away from me and I made him a box, filled with love letters written by poets and kings. We took trains, buses, subways. I would travel through the country to see him for just a few days, leaving at dawn and arriving at nightfall, feeling the dark parisian air on my pale skin. We would lay in his tiny bed in his tiny bedroom, his breath on my neck, his arms locked around my waist. I would trace his eyebrows with my middle finger and whisper to his sleeping ear : Im yours, and youre mine, always. We will have babies with auburn hair and dark wide eyes. When he was awake we would talk about how we would name them, our children already cherished.  

But as it goes, he was thunder and I was tide ; I was moon and he was sun. He burnt me. I made him shivers. We were like a lightning storm in a jar. And then all of the sudden, he was gone. I am not angry anymore, I am not sad anymore. I see his face, and I take it into my lacerated palms, and I say to him : « I honor you. I forgive you. You loved me like no one else, you killed me like no one else, and thats fair. We were worth all of it ». Everyone lives through the pain. Its like childbirth. You have to let it flow through you and tear you apart, so it can make you wiser, kinder. I know I never loved you better, than the day I let you go. 

These pictures were taken in June, near our lost home. 

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