Old Rivers

What does love mean, to you? To me?

Love is silent, and we’ve always been silent.

When younger, we’d assume we were too shy to own up to our feels. At least, I was. You clarified you only fell in love with girls — because there was no such thing as women at an age as ours — blue- or green-eyed. Mine were brown like hazel, but I didn’t forget to inform you, casually, they’d had a splash of honey whelming over them. Except, you didn’t care for honey accompanying your tea.

Why couldn’t you witness the sky filled with stars, abiding underneath? When these freckles cracked and poured, they wouldn’t taste like stardust, they would taste like the very same honey you neglected to explore. Did I inform you these skies shone bright for you only?

I like to believe you find your heart sing, each and every morning upon dawn. I like to believe you open your eyes to the fluttering of hers. I like to believe she holds you close, whilst counting birthmarks and specks of gentian-blue abiding in these oceans of yours. Oceans I’d find myself drown in, awaiting to be saved by your arms diving into mine. I like to believe she notices your pain and trembles, and drums along to the rhythm of your victories. I like to believe you’re reminded of me, through her.

I like to believe your love for me rings true, still, and fore-mostly now. I like to believe I’m not mistaken when I catch your gaze locking mine and see us both come alive. We have always found our calm here, there, where we don’t look away.

We couldn’t come home to the past, for no one lives there, for its sink doesn’t run, and thus I couldn’t brew you tea. I aim to gift you the purest honey out there. The oldest wine, and the oldest memories to look back on. Will we create? Or will we remember?

I love you — and this epiphany is naked, crying, dreaming, presented to you with a melody of its own, for these words couldn’t have been meant for anyone else. The heart behind them poured, and pours so only once, and thus you’ll always be my one and only love. My first. And my last. There’s no such thing as love when you cannot even begin to cope with seeing him or her happy with another. I see you happy always. It’s your happy. I see your joy and I light up. I see your smile and I love. You.

I have once again witnessed the canvas of dreams, the linings of your physique painted atop. In this, we found our way back. Our gazes turned into moans and our legs found themselves on linen sheets, washed awhite by the rise of day. I kissed your lips and let yours devour mine. We balanced atop each other’s pleasure and found our way to build cities, ones we’ll know how to visit.

And if you dare hold back, ignite in me the strength to moor rivers, shaped by the rains of this sorrow, an old one — rivers I’ll know how to sail.

I’ll then look up, and love you, still, only now forever silent.

Aerin