introspection…

“It’s not about the words.”

Hundreds of words.

Slipping. Through his hands.

Onto her lap. One catching on the tip of a finger, brushed along a skirt cascading around her ankles.

N.O.

Not there. He gave them to her as…

“When I propose, I will scatter rose petals, hundreds of them…” he watched her carefully.

“What color?” she asked while staring into the distance, not quite listening completely, just catching phrases.

“What color do you want?”

“Red” she replied in a determined manner.

Always red.

“Scattered rose petals. Leading from the walkway, through the door, into the kitchen, through the living room, into the bedroom…she’ll find me there.”

She sighed.

.

.

.

“It’s not about the words.”

A half-whispered conversation. Burning journals.

“What do three burning journals containing five years, millions of words, two relationships and a broken heart smell like as they crumble and become ash?”

“It was never about the words,” he assured her.

And she laughed. And held her own journals tightly.

A promise.

A million words for him.

Now.

She grew up.

No more words.

…Again.

“It was never about the words.”

I understand.

“…you’ve always ‘understood.’ it just takes a while to wake up to the

Beauty sometimes. it’s not about words…yours OR mine.”

“i want burning” said rumi.

And I did love you.

Once.

Somehow.