I fell in love with her not in the words she spoke but the way she said them.

Her name was Violet and she was one. 

Purple bled under her sage eyes, seeping into her ivory skin like watercolors on paper.

She was

a stream in a forest. not one put there by a malevolent god but one that has been bubbling up 

over time.

She existed. 

And she claimed it her natural right. 

Her laugh was singular. 

It was earned over hours upon hours of sipping grape soda and talking over the cadence of 

crickets, sitting in dewy grass on summer nighttimes. 

My violet was a neglected journal.  Her pages were hardly filled, each word a delicacy.

Every sentence she allowed me gave me a single detail in 

her story. 

Hers is one not known by many. Even shared with me over kissed foreheads through

warm whispers on hot skin, it is one not 

completely written. 

I tried to figure her out. She was a puzzle with one too many pieces missing. 

No matter how hard I tried, I could not put her back together. And at this, 

she would smile. 

I fell out of love with her not in the way she said things but the words she spoke.




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