People will just never understand an introvert. Criticism makes it worse. I know I’m shy but the least you people can do is stop reminding me of how much of a failure I am just because I’m not able to communicate with others effectively.
I miss your eyes, and how they change colors, like chameleions in the sunlight, and dance, like fire in the moonlight. I’ve never been one for making—let alone holding—a gaze so deeply into someones eyes, afraid that they could see through me, afraid that in that moment I would become all too vulnerable, like an open book with perforated pages, waiting to be scribbled on and torn out and crumpled up and made into a game piece for paper toss, carried away by a fan to a dark and lonely place behind a bookshelf where I will lie, the scribbled ink fading and the once crisp paper yellowing, alone—save the colony of dust bunnies that will share my inhabitance—for the rest of eternity. But your eyes, and their brilliant strands of color—not just one color, but so many different, marvelous colors—captivate me; they pull me in closer, deeper, until I am frozen, silent and still in the midst of the chaotic whirlwind that is my lingering existence. Your eyes, a kaleidoscope of the most magnificent design, a looking glass into an unpredictably beautiful future that is you and I, together.
I miss your hands, the weight of your affection pulsing through them, onto my skin and into my bloodstream, slowing the beating of my heart, calming the raging impulses that have only ever known the words “run away.” Five skillfully crafted fingers that interlace with five of my own, music notes composing a timeless melody of comfort, of security, of belonging. The same skillfully crafted fingers that trace the outline of my shoulders in the dreamy twilight that seeps through the windows before the sun comes up and beckons us out of bed, into the day, that swipe, sweetly, the hair from my face and continue down the curve of my cheeks, around to the back of my neck, drawing me in closer to your lips.
And speaking of your lips, I miss the way they part, a red sea of curious emotion revealing a brilliant smile when you laugh that laugh that is so unavoidably contagious, that laugh that makes my world keep turning when the sky is falling. Your smile pressed against my own, your breath stealing mine and holding it at ransom for one more kiss, your lips forming the words that I sometimes struggle to believe, for how could someone utter such a beautiful arrangement of the english language with any regards to a creature so tragically ordinary as I?
You make me want to be the unparalleled spectacle that you deserve. You make want to outshine the sun—I’m jealous for the privilege of warming you, of illuminating the dark and twisty roads that you travel, of making the dazzling colors of your eyes change when I walk in the room. You are my moon and stars. May I be your sunshine?
He took my hand in the moonlight, the warm summer rain drenching me with passion and a strange sort of giddy happiness that made me forget that my flowery sundress was all wet and I actually spent time on my hair that day. The buildings across the river—in the land of another country—looked extraterrestrial in the thick, misty fog. In those dark, evening hours, the world was irrelevant; he alone was my world.
And we walked along, our fingers interlocked very much like they were two hands of our own, instead of one of his and one of mine. We were among one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and nothing could take my gaze off of him. We walked farther on, away from the masses of tourists, scurrying to find shelter from the rain that we had forgotten to notice.
On a secluded path, surrounded by the majestic beauty that is Niagara Falls, he stopped in front of me and turned to face me. For a moment, our eyes were glued to each other’s, as if we were being drawn to each other by some irresistible gravitational pull. When he finally spoke, my knees went weak: “I think I’m falling in love with you, Gina.” And then a kiss that simultaneously felt like a nanosecond and an eternity, the rain engulfing us in our own kind of waterfall, trickling from the night sky.
It was then, that very moment, when we stepped back from each other and I caught his gaze again, that I knew this was like nothing I’d ever known before, and would ever know again. I turned towards the land across the river, “I’m just…remembering for a second.” And as my voice trailed off: “Like I’ll ever forget…” And he held me closer, and we looked up at the rain and back at each other, and I thought to myself, “This could be it.’
A cowboy hat hangs upside-down from the end of a curtain rod, holding countless, unparalleled memories of the teenage adventure of a lifetime.
The outline of a vintage picture frame draped in pearls houses a string of moments frozen in time.
A waterfall of twinkling white lights laces the windows and runs down the wall, emanating the beauty of Christmas on a still summer night.
Tassels from high school graduation, flowers from an unsought love shriveled by the power of time, maps of wandering destinations near and far, greeting cards from birthdays, holidays, and just because days, pages torn out of coloring books brought to life by childhood friends, ticket stubs from concerts and movies and fairs and sporting events stuffed like sardines in a mason jar—the memories they hold running together like watercolor paints, empty tomato soup cans housing paint brushes, writing utensils, scissors, and rulers, license plates from various states and decades, half-finished crafty Christmas presents, a patchwork quilt hand-sewn by my beautiful mother, an eclectic assortment of novels, biographies, poetry, and picture books, hundreds of pennies multiplying like bunnies in a mason jar, timeless photographs of Marilyn, and one very iconic kiss.
The things that cover my walls and stock my shelves tell the story of my existence. I am five years old and I wear the size seven and a half shoes of a twenty year old; I read classic novels and children’s books; I have been as far as Cancun without even leaving my bedroom. I am both old and new, borrowed and blue. I now own more hoodies that used to live in the closets of my closest friends than those that belonged to me to begin with.
If I never complain about anything ever again, it will be one time too many.