“Adieu” I squeaked in between the swallowed sobs.
“Shh. This is not adieu. Au revoir, my love.”
Aah, not everything can be bidden a goodbye to and perhaps, you knew that better than I did. How would I ever let go of those pink and purple wildlings that you had collected for me? I haven’t thrown them away, as I had claimed to. Those are hidden between the pages of my diary along with the aura of your cologne that they carry. And that exact remembrance of how your face glowed like that of a teenager in love, presenting a bunch of flowers to his first ever school sweetheart, hoping beyond hope that she would plant a kiss on his cheek. Oh, how you struggled to create a tiara out of it, entangling it in the process, hoping to impress me. And I? There was nothing more I desired than to wrap my arms around that childlike delighted face that manages to curve my lips upwards despite all the chaos that cause an affray in my relentless mind. Did I tell you that I knew to make tiaras? Well, I wouldn’t be able to watch you struggling like a five-year old. Would I?
They ask me how could I fall for you if we had never met? I would tell them I hadn’t. Yet, how do I explain the weakness in my knees or my heart skipping a beat when you tell me that you are abstrusely in love with me? How do I fathom my mouth going dry while I try to avert my gaze from those intense brown spectacled ones?
Remember that corner of the outdoor cinema we had sat in, amidst the crowded and claustrophobic space, under the stars? Laughing at each other for all the hideous tales we wove? How would I ever bid goodbye to the constant imprinted beam on your face, with your eyes twinkling when you looked like you had just been gifted with that crayon box you had been hankering to get?
Oh, how I wish I could be apathetic to all of it. To the torn soul that whispered to me at 2 am of how he had once known love. And despair. Of the 3 am tears that bled my heart from miles away. Yet, how could I explain myself of that knife that seemed to stab through me in the form of your tormented voice? I had never felt more impotent. Never did I imprecate the distance so bad.
The artist would never bid adieu to the paintings engraved on you, would she? Let me kiss the veins which form the uphill on those coloured lines. Or maybe trace them, sitting somewhere on the benches under the tree while we watch the sun making love to the purple horizon.
Is this just a summer romance excerpt from one of my favourite Sparks novels? Or the movie I had just watched? Even if it is, I would like to believe that this isn’t an adieu. Because none of them ever bid a goodbye. Did they?
Until the next time when you pluck those purple wild flowers and finally learn to make a tiara. Until the next time when you tell me about all the songs that you wrote and souvenirs that you photographed. Until the next time when my heart flutters on hearing my name as a prayer out of your deep voice.
Until the next time I start believing in magic and fairy tales. Au Revoir.