Timbre

The weather is just right. Sitting above a river bed with trains passing us by and a breeze blowing in. Busy crowds of people help us lose ourselves. It is rhythmic and serene. There is no need to be anyone else.

We have a choice. We could walk till there is no need to talk about yesterday or think of tomorrow or we could slip through the cracks. We could talk. Talk about school, talk about boys, talk about you and talk about me.

But what are words? What is it they do to you? You too know they are only a medium. A way to make you feel what I feel. Make you say what I want you to say. You know I like them. I like that they sing, I like that they paint. I like that they can talk when I cannot.

And I don't really know who you are, and you don't really know who I am. Just that you like the rain, and that day you chose to get wet in it. Chose to stick by me as I decided on madness over dryness. I still don't know why.

I am frightened and you know it. You don't try to placate me. You don't lie to me. You remember to treat me as an equal and you tell me you will still be there. When you reached out to me all those weeks ago, I thought you were delusional, but in a nice kind of way. I am glad you did.

I could thank you, but what is the point in that? You already know I am grateful. I already know you will do it again. Sometimes I cannot think beyond your presence in my life.

We talk about me and my captivation perplexes you. I don't really know why. He is, after all, unreasonably nice looking. We talk about you and I think yours is understandable. Maybe one day we will become photographs, and looking back we would think- yes, that was the moment.

I don't do these forever type things. Mostly because I am terrified you won't really have the time for them soon. But you are here now and that is good enough.

Oh, well. Let's just be.