Let me tell you a story. A short one. Sappy and ridiculous. But short, I promise.
Long strands of blonde silk that dance on the wind, flutter in breezes and sway gently in the dead air. Shines like gold in sunlight and glows like a firefly in moonlight and carries always the sweet smells of spring and summer. Like honeysuckle and rose that kiss the nose and drift away but a moment later.
Sheets of red that hang down with the serious air of a librarian, but flow like water in the hands. Thick and strong, it opposes the commands of the air and follows closely behind her master. Yet behind closed doors it comes away from the seriousness of its mission and folds into playful braids, holds itself wet in a bun among steaming waters and splays out, flustered onto a backdrop of tangled sheets and breathy sighs. It carries the musty scent of books and soap and lights the old fire, nostalgia, in the heart of the twelfth.
And tangled together they do not run into orange but twist into a shifting palette of just two colors, vying eternally for dominance as the blonde and red spin and shuffle. Sweet nothings and sharp breaths, misty windows and warm fires, the hard crackle of rain on brick and howling bangs of winds all around them. Twist, twist, twist the sheets and wind them all about them; and fall, fall, fall to the floor and break the heavy air with hysterical laughter.
Sit here and watch the sky, girl. Clouds fuse together. A dog. A tree. There's a man running, and a woman close behind.
I'd rather watch silk that dances and pearls that chatter.
You're still not well so watch the sky. See the clouds darken and signal coming rain. White birds against gray clouds that vanish in the light of the sun. Soft chirps and pleasant song.
Blue skies and white clouds. White blouse and skin like porcelain. Before me, just out of reach, but unlike clouds I grasp you.
Watch the rustling leaves, the green that shakes and rattles, catches in the sky and floats on the breeze of summer.
No, I'll watch the green pools of life that stare down upon me. They belong to a silly girl that tries to change my focus. But she doesn't succeed and never can. I commend her at least for trying.
A kiss then, fine, you've earned it.
A dozen more after too, so the day may feel unending.
The stars shine for you. A common turn of phrase. Absolutely true in your case.
They shine upon me for the light that reflects off their focus, and she stands right beside me.
I'm a vessel that catches light. A mean little thing that basks in the glow of a mighty star that saw fit to stand before me. I make no light to call me own, it always was and will be yours, I'm only here to witness.
Wrong again, because the light you think you've caught is the light you bring to me. From somewhere deep within, from the sun in your heart and the moon in your eyes you mix the lights and pour them upon me. Humbled. A little girl before the mighty glow of the constellation named Wings of Justice.
The day to day. Sun rises. Sun falls. Moon rises. Moon falls. The planet spins and the stars wink and blink. All this time they speak, back and forth, and what they say tumbles out, unrefined. Raw. This is good. Twist the raw, refine it, and pen a song of life and love. Sing it. Share it.
But never twist these words they speak when the dawn breaks and dusk settles:
I love you Noel.
I love you Tsubaki.
Three little words, a fourth usually follows. Sometimes yours. Or theirs. Someone's. But the three that precede - more perfect words were never spoken.