The nature of whether
You told me there were snowflakes dancing on your windowsill. You always told me that it calmed you to watch the snow fall or the scattered rains skip across the pavement. I can sit on a park bench in any city in any part of the world and the snow and rain can waltz or march to any melody but I still won’t believe you. Nature never calmed me.
It was a bright clear day when I met first you, if my memory serves me correctly, and I believe it was on a similar day I left. It was the kind of day where the warm air swarms around you like a locust plague and assaults your lungs with a thick humidity. You asked to hold my hand, but I told you that it was no use; nature would get the better of us.
Kisses in the rain, like a cliché romance novel. Predictability and spontaneity is what courses through my veins but you never did understand that. Between locked lips I told you that I loved the sky and the clouds and nature. You told me you loved me too.
It’s the breath of wind that maunders through the treetops that I liken myself to. You likened yourself to the smooth round stone that, although beautiful, is immobile. I smiled as the wind whipped your curly locks around your face and I kissed your wind torn lips. Naivety was what coursed through your veins.
One mild winter’s night you took a blanket and a bottle of chardonnay and we lay in the grass and watched the stars. Your sapphire eyes counted 700 hundred but I told you, you were wrong (I never cared for precious stones). You told me you’d love me forever and ever til every wrongly counted star fell from the sky. I told you that wasn’t my nature.
When it snows heavily one can wander to the moon and back and leave no footprints or forwarding address behind them. I left on a warm summer’s day, but despite the clement weather I still left you no trail behind. You never understood it, like the boulder cannot comprehend the river’s insatiable will to move. It wasn’t your nature.