Sometimes, she wore her hair up. However, it was not very often. She hated putting her hair up, and therefore would only do it in the privacy of home, when she was cleaning or simply too hot. "It makes me look like a boy," she'd retort when I'd asked why she didn't do it more often. And I could only roll my eyes and keep it to myself that she never looked like a boy, because I'd learned long ago that compliments didn't affect her; she was lost within herself and the pressures of her severe self loathing.
We were both kids who'd fallen victim to what our parents labeled a goth phase, but never fell out of it. Goth was our lifestyle, black was our signature color. But the difference between she and I was that she grew up long before I did, and that's what threw us way off balance. I was wild and free, doing whatever I liked whenever I liked, to hell with the devil and with her. But I loved her. I destroyed her, and I loved her. And I'll never look down on that part of our life and not regret ever other women I bedded that wasn't her those first two years.
She had a thing for tea, and was always getting me to taste whatever her newest find happened to be. She had no specific preference, and her collection ranged from the deep and comforting to the light and floral. For all her lack of money, she had this refined taste for classier things. Perhaps she was just born in the wrong time, too far ahead than the rest of us. The sound of an antique grandfather clock gonging the time is enough to capture her attention and bring a smile to her face. She appreciates things the rest of us take for granted, in this digital world.
She was so open, so ready to be accepted and loved. And her friends were affectionate and talked about masturbation a little too much, but that was okay, because we both know she couldn't please herself, and had no desire to. She had me, and she didn't want anyone or anything else. I was all she ever needed, all she ever wanted. And as much as she loved her friends, and loved feeling cool enough to have them, all she really ever wanted to do was spend time with me. And for all her openness, she was shy and unsure of herself and leaned on me a little too much to make decisions.
Her dreams were set behind a big desk in a cozy office with a keyboard under her fingertips and a screen full of words before her eyes. She uses words in the same way I use my guitar to speak the things my tongue can't stumble over. And when the weather is just right, outside and in her mind, the words pour forth like rain from the clouds or tears from her green eyes. She's not much for preaching, but she has a way of making you listen like your very soul is dependent on the next phrase that tumbles from that wild mind.
And I'm sitting here, watching her sleep and the easy rise and fall of her deep breathing, feeling ten thousand miles away from the love of my life. She's broken, my girl, and I made her this way. And we're both too stubborn and head strong for our own good. The foundation of our life was built on cracks and faulty information. The plumbing's not too good, but the electricity is going strong. And my heart is waging war on itself. I don't have a clue what's keeping us together, but I can't stand the thought of being without her. Something is here, something strong enough to keep us holding on through the worst storms. And I fear I'll keep fighting for this, even if it kills me. So I kiss her cheek, and run my hands over her tangled hair before running out the door to the factory, so I can try to make this life a little more comfortable for her and I. Because I'd do anything for her.
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