The Love of My Life in The Love of my Life

  • May 6, 2015, 3:17 p.m.
  • |
  • Public

She is the love of my life.

She was my storybook moment.

Fairy tales sometimes exist.

And this girl, well, she was my very wish upon a shooting star.

It came true.

Even if for only a time, but what a moment in time it was.

The greatest experience I have ever been allowed to curl my fingers around and delight in having it beat in rhythm with my breathing, heaving chest. Cradling it so gently next to my beating heart.

Oh, when I write my sonnets of suffering, of heartbreak, and of never-ending rose petal promises, well, I am almost always writing about her.

She colored my sky different shades.

Broke my candy-hard shell of hiding right, wide and terrifyingly open.

You see, the moment precisely before I first met her I was woefully unaware.

Then when I laid my innocent, brown eyes upon her.

That’s when the stormclouds that enshrouded my head were chased away by the sparkle of sunlight bursting from the darkened sky as if it were chasing the night and our very existence were reliant upon that chase.

Upon its claim.

That moment when I rested my sight upon her I discovered a gift. The kind of awe and fascination a child has when he first sees a present wrapped beneath a yuletide tree and the tag wore his name.

I did not know angels really did exist.

And that they would ever lay their soft, Crescent City heart upon me.

That I might actually have her look my way.

I did not realize I could fall in love with a moment.

And oh, I did.

So hard and swift I fell and met the pavement, but instead of scars she left me with so much more, so many shades of gray.

This is the story of the greatest moment in my life.

I was sitting in a van listening to music played by a red-haired boy with freckles and the craziest mane you could ever imagine on a Gothic boy, and he’s just blasting out of his speakers harmonies laced with profanity.

And outside the van were three girls, but that is only a number.

The other two did not exist for all intents.

Only one was dancing without care, as if the beat and rhythm of the music meant everything to her and she could not live without movement. Her feet needed to pop and prance in such an authentic and precious way.

These words ring hollow as they hang empty like a stocking above a fireplace before Christmas Day.

They will be beautiful, and pretty, and imperfect.

Because words cannot describe an angel.

And she was a 16-year-old girl dancing with blonde curly locks framing her face with strands of green dyed strands in a mess of a hairstyle.

She wore a tight leather miniskirt that hugged her curvy form as if it were a warm blanket you cozy into perfectly on the sofa you lounge upon on a rainy day.

The book you flip through would be the halter top that held her ample chest so tantalizing tight that I could not control my eyes.

I could not look away.

I was staring at the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes upon.

And she was holding a pixie stick and downing it when her soft, ocean blue eyes found their way to mine.

And she did not look away.

For the entirety of the song,which lasted hours in my mind yet only minutes outside my head she held her gaze.

Our eyes locked.

And she danced more provocatively with each second crawling forward agonizingly slow.

This was intoxication sans alcohol.

I was drunk on her beauty.

Staggered by her grace.

Desperate for her name.

Does love at first sight exist?

I would say no, but I have experienced the closest approximation to giving it credence.

This would be the first girl I ever fell in love with.

And that moment I spoke of that was candy apple coating and wistfully magic?

That moment would not happen for well over a year.

And that moment would again be with her.

But I’ll reflect upon that in a moment.

I finally found out her name.

I was an awkward 18-year-old boy who had never had a date with a girl.

Not even a kiss.

And she would give me so many firsts that she owns layers of my piecemeal heart that no one else can ever claim.

Monique is her name

Monique.

And she more than any other girl I have loved shaped me the most into the man I am today.

That Cinderella moment I spoke of?

Perhaps that will be a story for me to reflect upon another day.

This is not how this story ends.

May you always find your smile.


Last updated December 10, 2015


Sharee May 06, 2015

This takes me back to when I was 16...to someone I had something similar with, but the time never worked out in our favor so who knows what could have come of it. I still miss him like crazy sometimes.

LoveSuicide Sharee ⋅ May 06, 2015

Whatever happened to you and him? hugs.

Sharee LoveSuicide ⋅ May 06, 2015

He disappeared off and on over the years, he'd usually pop up after a year or so and text or email. He passed away a little over two years ago. He'd had some medical issues and, I guess, decided it was too much.

LoveSuicide Sharee ⋅ May 07, 2015

Decided it was too much as in... killed himself?

Damn.

No words for that. They are empty and hollow.

Lacking in the empathy needed to even comprehend such a travesty. I only offer this -- he lives on in your thoughts, mind, and in your memory. He exists right now. We are discussing him.

And that's a treasure you have given him.

Something we all crave.

To be recalled.

Not forgotten.

Unforgettable.

Yes, what a true treasure to him you have placed.

Sharee LoveSuicide ⋅ May 07, 2015

He did, though that's not the public story. I hadn't heard from him for several months. What bothers me the most is that he didn't believe there was anything after death and that always terrified him. Knowing he got to a point that he felt that the preferable option breaks my heart.

LoveSuicide Sharee ⋅ May 07, 2015

Ouch. I can see why you feel that way considering his views. I think sometimes not believing in something can be as dangerous as believing to a fanatical degree. Big hugs. I can't imagine your sense of loss, you have my deepest empathy.

NoteToSelf. May 06, 2015

Yes.. I really like this. :)

LoveSuicide NoteToSelf. ⋅ May 06, 2015

The truth is hardly an honor, but deeply I am touched. hugs.

Deleted user May 07, 2015

Much love and awe

LoveSuicide Deleted user ⋅ May 07, 2015

Aw. I'm honored. :)

Waiting For Sunrise May 08, 2015

I love this, taking a single moment and reconstructing it like a photograph.... it makes me feel I am there with you, awestruck by her bold hair and un-selfconscious dancing.

(It also makes me feel nostalgic for those blurry days of youth where we believed we were free spirits; a spectrum of sensations and horizons stretched wide ahead of us...)

LoveSuicide Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ May 08, 2015

Aw, thank you, darling. I had not considered the concept of the photograph, though now that you say that it does blend perfect to what I felt was a snapshot of that meeting.

And I don't think I have ever been unable to take my eyes off another person before, especially wanting desperately to do so!

Does that suggest you don't see us as being free spirits?

Sometimes I wonder if the horizon is coming to meet me, or I'm simply going to crash into it one day. Is that what they mean by seeing the bright light before the train of death steamrolls right over you.

Waiting For Sunrise LoveSuicide ⋅ May 09, 2015

I guess I don't see myself as a free spirit... or any spirit, really, just a hollow shell... I suppose that doesn't mean I don't see others as free spirits though; I see my own horizon as a very narrow tunnel, but I am sure that vast vista of possibility exists for others, I am particularly jealous of those with youth and ambition and unguarded enthusiastic ideas still on their side, their paths as yet unwritten.

LoveSuicide Waiting For Sunrise ⋅ May 09, 2015

What is your horizon/tunnel then, darling?

Envy and jealousy are typical when we encounter someone who has so much more time to fix or address their ailments.. yet we are grasping at straws just out of reach and the clock keeps ticking..

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