We went to a charming café last night. The evening was fraught with fireflies and indigo stars. We sat beneath an ivory awning laced with velvety moss. Ordered two cappuccinos – the barista shaped the milk so a heart cascaded over our espresso. He must have known we are in love.
There is not much I can say at this point. You have made up your mind. And acceptance is much harder to find than I thought. I have muddled up the first four stages of grief. Silk pillowcases of denial, hot coals of anger – so much anger – 4 a.m. prayers to God, and then a four shots of vodka kind of depression. I don’t want to believe it. When the way you held me at night, pressed yourself into my spine, and whispered into the splitting ends of my hair – you knew I was in love with you.
Stunned by rabid wolves and deafening howls that even the purple moon succumbs to a crescent. Frosted trees once enchanted by glistening flakes from heaven are now withering into wiry branches that cascade over opaline ground. The crunch of burning and bountiful leaves. Overgrown gardens of Eden and overcrowded closets to Narnia. Ripped t-shirt pockets and black hole hangers.
When I thought I would never find love again (because don’t we all feel that way when we lose our first love?), I wound up falling in love a second time with a man that was far and above anything that I ever thought I could find or deserve. Within the first six months, I knew I was head over heels for him, and I knew that, this is what love is supposed to feel like.