Beauty
2005-02-03: Beauty
I tell her that she met me at a strange point in my life.
I tell her how I remember sitting on the porch at Leslie’s apartment in Florida, just watching the rain, talking about life. Beauty, frozen and packaged in an isolated memory, but it still seems so real.
I tell her about how much I grew from my experiences with Heather. About how dead I felt inside when we parted ways, and how change inaugurates growth.
She’s tired and sleep deprived. She doesn’t have time to listen.
I know it isn’t for a lack of interest, but I’m not sure she’d understand anyway.
“Bueno notte il mio caro”, I say into her ear, and I tenderly kiss her on the cheek.
I walk away with swift, evenly paced steps, and I hear the stubborn door shut behind me. I listen to the weight of my steps against the paneling as I shuffle down the stairs and stride toward my car.
Keys in hand, finger ready on the button that would allow entry on swift wings back home, I pause.
Like Florida rain, the desert night is another world. It’s three in the morning, and it’s so still, calm, and peaceful. The bustle of business and human agenda rests to reveal a realm of infinite beauty.
It’s funny how silence draws attention to every otherwise insignificant detail.
I can hear rustling leaves and imagine they’re dancing against the wind’s invisible caress; the same ghostly touch that’s smooth as silk on my face, teasing errant locks of hair; taunting the fringe of my coat.
I feel like the stars are looking down at me from above, shining as bright, brazen beacons against the velvet curtain of midnight, watching over a sleeping city with tireless vigilance.
I can only breathe, hoping to inhale this moment’s magic, to absorb it through my lungs like smoke.
I cast a longing glance over my shoulder toward the balcony, toward her apartment. I wish I could somehow share this moment; this feeling of complete freedom. I wish I could show her what it’s like to touch the face of eternity, if only for a moment. But alas, it cannot be, for this moment lives in isolation, and some visions must be witnessed alone.
With acknowledgement to all that is forgotten at sunrise, I whisper quietly into the night: “Bueno notte il mio caro. Goodnight my beloved.”
I tell her that she met me at a strange point in my life.
I tell her how I remember sitting on the porch at Leslie’s apartment in Florida, just watching the rain, talking about life. Beauty, frozen and packaged in an isolated memory, but it still seems so real.
I tell her about how much I grew from my experiences with Heather. About how dead I felt inside when we parted ways, and how change inaugurates growth.
She’s tired and sleep deprived. She doesn’t have time to listen.
I know it isn’t for a lack of interest, but I’m not sure she’d understand anyway.
“Bueno notte il mio caro”, I say into her ear, and I tenderly kiss her on the cheek.
I walk away with swift, evenly paced steps, and I hear the stubborn door shut behind me. I listen to the weight of my steps against the paneling as I shuffle down the stairs and stride toward my car.
Keys in hand, finger ready on the button that would allow entry on swift wings back home, I pause.
Like Florida rain, the desert night is another world. It’s three in the morning, and it’s so still, calm, and peaceful. The bustle of business and human agenda rests to reveal a realm of infinite beauty.
It’s funny how silence draws attention to every otherwise insignificant detail.
I can hear rustling leaves and imagine they’re dancing against the wind’s invisible caress; the same ghostly touch that’s smooth as silk on my face, teasing errant locks of hair; taunting the fringe of my coat.
I feel like the stars are looking down at me from above, shining as bright, brazen beacons against the velvet curtain of midnight, watching over a sleeping city with tireless vigilance.
I can only breathe, hoping to inhale this moment’s magic, to absorb it through my lungs like smoke.
I cast a longing glance over my shoulder toward the balcony, toward her apartment. I wish I could somehow share this moment; this feeling of complete freedom. I wish I could show her what it’s like to touch the face of eternity, if only for a moment. But alas, it cannot be, for this moment lives in isolation, and some visions must be witnessed alone.
With acknowledgement to all that is forgotten at sunrise, I whisper quietly into the night: “Bueno notte il mio caro. Goodnight my beloved.”