Until You Found Me
You could melt me like butter through your fingers and I’d still creep to your feet. I’d still want to fit in the you-shaped hole I never knew I had for a heart.
You’d shine through the room, the only colored being, floating soul tangs through my mind, forcing reality to bleed into a future where your light was mine alone to behold.
I was dripping with fear at the tremors your laughter caused. I once caught myself shivering at the thought of having to share you with the world.
My friends thought it was obsession, I felt it was confirmation: you were the piece of love missing from my quiet symphony of a life.
You were light, tight with words but not smiles. Fighting for color to reign when you pushed your tongue in the rain, forever the child who reined in the adult you never had to be, no matter whose words admonishment rained.
You could push through my fake bravado and I’d still listen. You could stay quiet and I’d still hear the song of your eyes. You could brush my arm on your way out of the library and my breath would still stop, always. And my spin to catch a glimpse of your lively step, each painting its way unto a black and white world that didn’t deserve your colors.
When I said you meant the world to me, what I meant was that until you found me, I was dead.