It's time that we said goodbye. Not because I'm not deeply enthralled; not because my heart doesn't ache with every step away from me she takes; not because she's not my best friend. But because the love I have for her is toxic, and mama always warned me not to fall for an angel.
I thought my favourite colour was green until I met her. That first day at camp my heart was spray painted a dark teal despite my best efforts to contain myself. Since then, girl after girl, letter after letter, sunrise after sunrise all of my thoughts point to her. There's not a day where my guitar doesn't sing her melody, and when she finally forced "au dieu" to leave her lips she took my major chords with her. All that is left is the remnants of B minor, because my heart won't finish a song about her that isn't sealed with a kiss.
She was perfect. In every way but one: she couldn't love me the way I did her. I should have known by the way our worlds mixed so sourly—green and teal were fine until we added our own brand and the water turned milky. Murky streaks should have been my first sign but she was no ordinary camp fling. I thought it could have been more. It should have been more. There had to have been more. But it wasn't. Maybe I'm the fool.
The next sign came when I jumped in far too deep, far too fast. I should have known that perfection takes time but once I fell off her waterfall, it was just too late to claw my way back up. Try as I did, I could only find comfort in the warmth in her eyes and the sincerity in her smile. A look like that was enough to send me to Cloud 9 and back. Imagining what a saucy gal like her saw in a guy like me gave me goosebumps; for my thoughts always circled her best features. Her kindness, loyalty, dedication, passion and spirit accompanied me through every difficult moment of my life until she closed my front door.
By Deus, if I could do it all again, I would. Make no mistake, I would not do it because I regret my actions, but I would do it all again just to gaze upon her porcelain skin one more time. One last time, to savour the way she used to look at me. When she passes my street I'm lucky for a downcast glance from the curb. Her face serves as a permanent memorial to the longing that fizzled between us. I locked eyes with her for the only time, and I swear I saw my morose memories reflected back at me. That was a winter ago. I wish she would stop wearing sunglasses when she knows we'll pass by one another.
Now every hoodie I have is perfumed of her, and the left side of the couch is missing a body. One dirty plate yearns for a friend as it waits by the sink, and the stainless steel fridge only sports a single set of fingerprints. As a child, my grandpa used to tell me that your personality influences the material possessions in your life, and it has to be true, because my car whines when it can't feel windblown, colour-streaked hair on the light, leather seats.
I miss her. I always have. And I think a phantom of her will haunt me forever as my biggest regret, because without a doubt I can say that I loved her. Because she used to be my angel, my rock, my highlighter, my soul, and I adored that about us. I could spend the rest of my life defending her, because I was always willing to fight for our unique shade of Swamp Aquamarine. In the back of my mind, I want her to be happy with her life, even though I know she is not.
Maybe it wouldn't last because my guitar wasn't as angelic as the harp she was looking for. I miss everything about her, even though I know she wasn't meant to be my teal angel.
Above all else, I think my favourite thing about her is that through teal lips she can say "I love you" in a thousand languages … except the one where she loves me back.