This Is Our Life

I've decided we are going to be a story. I will write a novel about us. For us. You will be the dashing young hero and I will be the strong-willed heroine and together we will save the world. Or, at least, save ourselves from this world. It will be simple with incomplete sentances and not every i will be dotted. But such are the lives we lead, full of un-dotted i's. There will be brief interludes where I shall imagine your thoughts as you look out into the dusty sea and it will be like an old forgotten photograph somone took years ago. At times we will walk together down abandoned alleyways but not look once at one another, I will have seemed to ruined things again. But never fear, as we reach the light at the end you always throw an arm around my thin shoulders and pull me close and I will know you need me still. Though there will be times I wonder if you need me as much as you think I need you. Perhaps this will be the case. We will travel the cities and the countrysides and take photos of one another taking photos of the scenery, each of us capturing something beautiful. And at the end of the day these memories will be carefully placed in a tattered and torn shoebox we will find in chapter 2.

I think we will not become lovers, because that transistion always brings about complications. And as I said, this story is to be simple. But there will be looks with possible meaning and the reader will desperately urge me to finally "just get on with it, kiss him already, go on!" I will have to shake my head appologetically and turn away as I ever so quietly wipe away the shiny diamond of a tear threatening to show it's face. You will watch as I move away and see the gentle gesture and the reader will know as I will not that your heart beats heavy for that which you cannot know. It will be heartbreaking but I think for the best and afterall, isn't this a part of life?

In the end we will both be old and satisfied. There is a place on the beach, discovered towards the middle of chapter 7, we both instantly have a connection to. Nothing much, a log swept up from the sea, surrounded by the seagrass that grows high into the ocean's sky. When we first set our eyes upon this place there was one single yellow flower dancing in the wind and you went to pick it, to place it in my hair. I stopped you, maybe this flower was waiting for someone to come save her, like we were saving the world. So you let her be and we rested along the log and she danced for us. And now, in the final verse of our story, we go back to this place and there is not one single yellow flower but hundreds, all of them dancing for us, asking us to join them. You had never asked me to dance before, but finally in the last few sentances you take my hand and you hold me close. I can smell your skin and feel your heart beating our song and I smile to myself. The diamond of a tear breaks loose but this time I let it go.

And when our song is over we lie down once again against the log, your arm around my frame. I close my eyes for my last time so I don't see the one yellow flower that seems to have detatched itself from the hundreds, leaning close against my face. It seems to be nodding its consent so you take it and place it behind my ear. You will trace the outline of my face for the first time, for the last time, and finally close your eyes to the beauty of the sea surrounding us. Our story will be just as beautiful in death as it was in life. And in the end, we have have done our duty, if not to the world then to one another.