They met at the bridge. He, and she. Winter and spring. Blackest
night, brightest day. They met at the bridge, where they had met before,
were meeting, and would continue meeting, until they died or got bored of
each other.
But that could never be.
To her, he was an enigma. An object of intrigue. So cold, with his heart of ice-he never could forget. Dark clothing matched a tainted past-so many mistakes-but she forgave them, just like he knew she would. His attitude was that of a seasoned warrior-quiet...deadly. So silent was he, one never knew what thoughts flitted behind those piercing orbs of reflective obsidian. One meaning, of course, you, and you, but not she. She knew he burned for revenge, that his life was built upon hate, and the hate was built upon fear, and fear upon rage, rage from helplessness, helplessness at the hands of the one he had cared for the most. She knows this, and she knows that until he has done this, there is no room for her in his heart, mind...his life. But even though she knows this, she hopes...hopes for...hopes for nothing. Not anymore, she does not hope that he will love her, because she knows it can never be. It will never happen because everything upon which his hate is built, upon which his life is built, is not sturdy enough the weather the sormt that is his greatest foe- that is his absolute resolution. Knowing this, she loves him, even though she expects nothing in return-and she knows that by doing this, she is wasting her life away-she loves him, and he recognizes this, with indifference. She cannot explain the reasoning behind her emotions, she loves him because...because...because she can't imagine loving anyone else. He is her rock, her strength, her stability in this fragile, glass world. He will always be the same...so she will always love him. And so she comes, early, everyday, to meet him by the bridge; if not for him, for herself, to remind herself that he is here, and she is here, and that she loves him.
To him, she is annoying. Everything about her screams happiness and love and light. But he doesn't like the light. The light pushes past his walls of darkness and penetrates his gloomy world; proves his hatred, his fear, is a frivolity. It proves that he is wrong-that his ultimate goal will be his ultimate demise. He hates the light. And her eyes. Her sparkling, dancing, joyous emerald paths to her soul; he despises them. He does so because they contain nothing of his own-no rage, no sadness, no hatred, no fear-just innocent, ignorant fantasies, like love, and warmth. She has suffered none of his tragedies, bore none of his sorrows, and he hopes she never will, because then her light would go out: we all need light to survive. To him, her very countenance overwhelms and grates on his nerves. The cheerful tone and optimism are too much. But the worst, the worst for him is her smile, her glowing, white, angelic smile. It melts the coldest of hearts. It pierces him, because he remembers when he could smile like that, and it hurts him because he knows he never will again. Her smile touches him, it makes him want to smile too-but he can't. He can't and he won't, because he has an ambition, and he can't be distracted by things such as smiles. Or pink hair. Or love. He thinks he knows her. He thinks he reads her like the proverbial book, heart-on-the-sleeve emotions. He thinks her life is smiles and rainbows and laughter. If only he knew what lay behind the smiling face-if he knew of her crying heart-would he still love her? He finds himself shocked. He loves her. For all her love, for all her warmth, for all the tears she's cried for him, for all her smiles...for her. For all she is, for all she will be, he loves her, because she is his light, and we all need light to survive. He knows this, yet finds himself unable to express this to her-so he comes, early, everyday, to the bridge where they met, because he loves her, because this is the only way his heart knows to show her that he loves her; to be there, to be her strength, her shield from the cruelty of life, to protect her smile.
So each comes, early, everyday, to the bridge where they met, and there they stand, or sit, if it suits them, each enjoying the other's company. For despite how it may appear, he loves her, and she him, and each knows this, not consciously, but in a deeper, secret part of their hearts, which is why they are content to bask in the other's shade, or glow, depending on whom you observe.
And then another will appear. Both know and accept him. He loves her, but she will never return his feelings, for she already loves the first, and he knows this, but is never shy about his feelings, superficial though they are. So he joins them at the bridge at the bridge where they met, and the trio descend once more into silence. However, this new one is immune to silence, and so makes noise, to which she retaliates. And thus, the silence is broken, and the shadow lightens, the glow fades-as if there was nothing. A void. A rift, a missing plank in a bridge. No connection.
In a short while, a fourth will appear. This one, wise in worldly ways, leads them on the road of life-if only for a few hours-and then, it is sunset, and they return to the bridge. The fourth leaves, and then exits the Noise, which leaves he, and she, and the shadow, and the glow. The silence reigns once more, until he can no longer remain, for fear of wanting to stay. Nodding farewell, he walks off, taking his shadows, back fading into the growing night. He has left, but she remains, the one-sided glow, and gazes at the moon. She knows she should leave, as well. But she cannot bring herself to leave the bridge, her bridge, his bridge, theirs- she stays to wish on a fallen star- and then decides it's finally time to go. So she departs. He has departed. Her to her family, he to his solitude- both to dreams-only to awake with the sun and return to the bridge, the bridge where they met.
But that could never be.
To her, he was an enigma. An object of intrigue. So cold, with his heart of ice-he never could forget. Dark clothing matched a tainted past-so many mistakes-but she forgave them, just like he knew she would. His attitude was that of a seasoned warrior-quiet...deadly. So silent was he, one never knew what thoughts flitted behind those piercing orbs of reflective obsidian. One meaning, of course, you, and you, but not she. She knew he burned for revenge, that his life was built upon hate, and the hate was built upon fear, and fear upon rage, rage from helplessness, helplessness at the hands of the one he had cared for the most. She knows this, and she knows that until he has done this, there is no room for her in his heart, mind...his life. But even though she knows this, she hopes...hopes for...hopes for nothing. Not anymore, she does not hope that he will love her, because she knows it can never be. It will never happen because everything upon which his hate is built, upon which his life is built, is not sturdy enough the weather the sormt that is his greatest foe- that is his absolute resolution. Knowing this, she loves him, even though she expects nothing in return-and she knows that by doing this, she is wasting her life away-she loves him, and he recognizes this, with indifference. She cannot explain the reasoning behind her emotions, she loves him because...because...because she can't imagine loving anyone else. He is her rock, her strength, her stability in this fragile, glass world. He will always be the same...so she will always love him. And so she comes, early, everyday, to meet him by the bridge; if not for him, for herself, to remind herself that he is here, and she is here, and that she loves him.
To him, she is annoying. Everything about her screams happiness and love and light. But he doesn't like the light. The light pushes past his walls of darkness and penetrates his gloomy world; proves his hatred, his fear, is a frivolity. It proves that he is wrong-that his ultimate goal will be his ultimate demise. He hates the light. And her eyes. Her sparkling, dancing, joyous emerald paths to her soul; he despises them. He does so because they contain nothing of his own-no rage, no sadness, no hatred, no fear-just innocent, ignorant fantasies, like love, and warmth. She has suffered none of his tragedies, bore none of his sorrows, and he hopes she never will, because then her light would go out: we all need light to survive. To him, her very countenance overwhelms and grates on his nerves. The cheerful tone and optimism are too much. But the worst, the worst for him is her smile, her glowing, white, angelic smile. It melts the coldest of hearts. It pierces him, because he remembers when he could smile like that, and it hurts him because he knows he never will again. Her smile touches him, it makes him want to smile too-but he can't. He can't and he won't, because he has an ambition, and he can't be distracted by things such as smiles. Or pink hair. Or love. He thinks he knows her. He thinks he reads her like the proverbial book, heart-on-the-sleeve emotions. He thinks her life is smiles and rainbows and laughter. If only he knew what lay behind the smiling face-if he knew of her crying heart-would he still love her? He finds himself shocked. He loves her. For all her love, for all her warmth, for all the tears she's cried for him, for all her smiles...for her. For all she is, for all she will be, he loves her, because she is his light, and we all need light to survive. He knows this, yet finds himself unable to express this to her-so he comes, early, everyday, to the bridge where they met, because he loves her, because this is the only way his heart knows to show her that he loves her; to be there, to be her strength, her shield from the cruelty of life, to protect her smile.
So each comes, early, everyday, to the bridge where they met, and there they stand, or sit, if it suits them, each enjoying the other's company. For despite how it may appear, he loves her, and she him, and each knows this, not consciously, but in a deeper, secret part of their hearts, which is why they are content to bask in the other's shade, or glow, depending on whom you observe.
And then another will appear. Both know and accept him. He loves her, but she will never return his feelings, for she already loves the first, and he knows this, but is never shy about his feelings, superficial though they are. So he joins them at the bridge at the bridge where they met, and the trio descend once more into silence. However, this new one is immune to silence, and so makes noise, to which she retaliates. And thus, the silence is broken, and the shadow lightens, the glow fades-as if there was nothing. A void. A rift, a missing plank in a bridge. No connection.
In a short while, a fourth will appear. This one, wise in worldly ways, leads them on the road of life-if only for a few hours-and then, it is sunset, and they return to the bridge. The fourth leaves, and then exits the Noise, which leaves he, and she, and the shadow, and the glow. The silence reigns once more, until he can no longer remain, for fear of wanting to stay. Nodding farewell, he walks off, taking his shadows, back fading into the growing night. He has left, but she remains, the one-sided glow, and gazes at the moon. She knows she should leave, as well. But she cannot bring herself to leave the bridge, her bridge, his bridge, theirs- she stays to wish on a fallen star- and then decides it's finally time to go. So she departs. He has departed. Her to her family, he to his solitude- both to dreams-only to awake with the sun and return to the bridge, the bridge where they met.