Out of every word, we chose the word rose.
We did not pick yellow, to emulate the forgiving rays of sunshine. No blue to remind us of the beautiful, immortal ocean. It was rose. Roses, which are pungent and thorned, violent flowers that you give to loved ones and leave them to die. Was that my mistake? My yearning turned into something true, I guess. I was given something fragrant and lovely, and inevitably, it fell apart and died in my own two hands.
I wonder what you thought of it.
Did you have expectations? I'm sure they were shattered when you met me (not in a good way). But, over and over, I think I could have made a thousand different mistakes and you would always catch me.
Bless your calm demeanor, you ice queen.
You reinvent a thousand times over. You are more trustworthy and valuable than any putrid rose.
Wear your dress an inch shorter, wear your hair a little longer. Have takoyaki instead of ramen. Sip your drinks slowly, and eat your food at the speed of light.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter.
I would love you every single way, every single time.
I gave up a thousand times, and each time, you were the only thing rose-coloured. Something so radiant that I felt I couldn't go near it, I had to reject it due to my sheer inadequacy - an angel, surely. But what if I didn't? What if I reached out, and touched you? Would your raven-hair betray your coldness with soft silk? Do your eyes capture more light the closer I stand to you? Does the air grow chilly, but your hands turn warm? Maybe you like ice cream and bike rides. If I won you a Mochigumi plush, you might kiss my cheek and sleep with it at night, and never tell me, until the day I came over and saw it sitting on your bed and secretly smelled it and recognized the scent of your breath and drool and shampoo because you always shower before bed and not right when you wake up. It saves time in the morning, you say. You're awfully smart. I wish I gave you more credit.
I don't know who is following who anymore. The red string is not tangled, but spun, tightly and intricately around a spool. You could start from either end and always find the other end. Two ends. Two beginnings? Is there a word for something that is both an end and a beginning? I suppose, after all, it is determined from the direction you start in. The only difference in a circle is the way your eyes travel it, after all.
So if I run, from you, and temptation, in an attempt to punish and save myself from agony, I will simply find you on the other side.
Your dress is an inch longer, and the top button is undone. Your eyes are grayer, I see, as you tilt in close. The smile on your lips - is that a smile? Your lips curve up at the edges, and your eyes glint with secrets, you smile like you know something I don't know. And you tell me, as you have told me infinitely before, that I made you a promise, and I must keep it.
It would be so easy to kiss you, I think to myself, and I allow myself the pleasure of imagining the sensation of my fingers weaving into the thin hair that curls at the nape of your neck, fingertips rubbing against your scalp and applying a needy pressure that pulls you closer to me. To bridge the gap. To finish a circle. And out mouths would meet, and I don't know if you'd make a sound or keep it all to yourself - I'd like to find out - and your lips would be the most luxurious thing anyone could have even attempted to dream up. I could die happily in a kiss like that. And, I'd notice, with your eyes enlarged because your proximity to my glasses, that first of all, your pupils dilate when you kiss me and the color of your irises becomes a little rosier than I remember. Second of all, you kiss with your eyes open.
Ahhh. I want to see that face.
I see your plan. You are a devil in a girl's body with a halo on. The red thread, what you've done, is you've taken it and tied them together at each end in a tight knot.
I bow gracefully. I concede, your majesty. I surrender.
Forgive me for all of my thorns and wilted efforts.
You are clever, and I am only the protagonist.