We say 'I love you' in a thousand different ways.
Sometimes they're verbal. Sometimes they're not. Sometimes, the simplest words or actions can say so much more than platitudes of love. "Keep warm." "Keep safe." "I like your dress." A touch. A smile. A random act of kindness.
You know, that's why it hurts, sometimes.
I look at him from far away. and sometimes, he just seems like a dream of a man. A dream of a man, to whom I am less than a dream of a woman.
He barely knows I exist.
It's times like those that I retreat into myself. I don't doubt that I am an introvert: what writer isn't? All writing is born out of that inward sea of turbulent emotion, the ebb and flow of the tides of emotional agony, the crashing of waves of misery on the shores of the soul. I am caught in the rip, and although I try to anchor myself to the land with trails of black ink, I only get swept further and further out to sea.
One day it will drown me. I have no illusions about that. There are no charms to stop this most ancient, inexorable call.
But I will keep myself safe, for now. I will live, and I will smile, for now. I will ward my inner storms with outer sunshine, for now. I will be cheerful Lily Evans, sixth-year Hogwarts student.
For him. For James.
And then, at night, when all is silent, I will creep up to the Astronomy Tower and I will write. Poetry will drip like tears from my pen in that place of romantic rendezvous and sweep me away.
And, as the tide ebbs, I will realise that I can never have you, James. I can never have you, because you don't know I'm there.
Who ever recognises the poet in a room of lyricists? Who ever recognises a star in the sky? A drop of water in the sea? The dream of the dreamer?
In my dreams, you are not my boyfriend. I don't think what I feel for you could ever be translated into such terms of social superficiality. No, rather you are my flying companion. The one who is sacred to me. The one who is the half of the mysteries of life. The one who is always there for me, helping me, watching my back, picking me up when I fall down, explaining oddities of wizarding culture to me, listening to my stories no matter how many times I tell them. Loving me even when I make no sense. Understanding me without words. Being inside the innermost circle in my mind.
Soulmate.
But you are not. And you never will be, because you do not know I exist.
So I will adore you quietly, writing elegies to your table manners, odes to your Quidditch skills and laments to the colour of your hair. For while you live, even if your blue eyes sweep over me like I'm wearing an Invisibility Cloak, I can stop the sea from sweeping me away on the tide. Content to live, content to love.
And I will dream.
.that one day, one day, you will love me enough to grant me that touch, that smile, that random act of kindness. To say to me, 'Be wise, my beloved. Be safe, be strong, be truthful and be just. But most of all, be happy.'
That one day, he will tell me loves me.
Sometimes they're verbal. Sometimes they're not. Sometimes, the simplest words or actions can say so much more than platitudes of love. "Keep warm." "Keep safe." "I like your dress." A touch. A smile. A random act of kindness.
You know, that's why it hurts, sometimes.
I look at him from far away. and sometimes, he just seems like a dream of a man. A dream of a man, to whom I am less than a dream of a woman.
He barely knows I exist.
It's times like those that I retreat into myself. I don't doubt that I am an introvert: what writer isn't? All writing is born out of that inward sea of turbulent emotion, the ebb and flow of the tides of emotional agony, the crashing of waves of misery on the shores of the soul. I am caught in the rip, and although I try to anchor myself to the land with trails of black ink, I only get swept further and further out to sea.
One day it will drown me. I have no illusions about that. There are no charms to stop this most ancient, inexorable call.
But I will keep myself safe, for now. I will live, and I will smile, for now. I will ward my inner storms with outer sunshine, for now. I will be cheerful Lily Evans, sixth-year Hogwarts student.
For him. For James.
And then, at night, when all is silent, I will creep up to the Astronomy Tower and I will write. Poetry will drip like tears from my pen in that place of romantic rendezvous and sweep me away.
And, as the tide ebbs, I will realise that I can never have you, James. I can never have you, because you don't know I'm there.
Who ever recognises the poet in a room of lyricists? Who ever recognises a star in the sky? A drop of water in the sea? The dream of the dreamer?
In my dreams, you are not my boyfriend. I don't think what I feel for you could ever be translated into such terms of social superficiality. No, rather you are my flying companion. The one who is sacred to me. The one who is the half of the mysteries of life. The one who is always there for me, helping me, watching my back, picking me up when I fall down, explaining oddities of wizarding culture to me, listening to my stories no matter how many times I tell them. Loving me even when I make no sense. Understanding me without words. Being inside the innermost circle in my mind.
Soulmate.
But you are not. And you never will be, because you do not know I exist.
So I will adore you quietly, writing elegies to your table manners, odes to your Quidditch skills and laments to the colour of your hair. For while you live, even if your blue eyes sweep over me like I'm wearing an Invisibility Cloak, I can stop the sea from sweeping me away on the tide. Content to live, content to love.
And I will dream.
.that one day, one day, you will love me enough to grant me that touch, that smile, that random act of kindness. To say to me, 'Be wise, my beloved. Be safe, be strong, be truthful and be just. But most of all, be happy.'
That one day, he will tell me loves me.