metamorphis

When I was 14 I thought I was in love with a boy.

We went on a school trip together. We kissed on the bus on the way back.

I didn't enjoy it. I regret that.

Now I am 20.

I spend a week with her on an archaeology dig.

We share an airbnb. Two shepherds huts in a field and a wood burning stove.

I am more in love with her than I ever was then.

It is different now.

I love her like poetry and it makes my heart break.

She is beautiful in the firelight.

I sit, trying to sketch the softness of her face.

She plays the songs we used to listen to, back then, and I am full of stars.

We are both melancholy. We always are, thinking about back then.

Her hair is long, she hasn’t cut it since we were 14.

I tell her she looks beautiful, like those women in renaissance paintings. I say it with just enough lighthearted sincerity.

I don't think she believes me.

I don’t know much about art. Or love.

But the firelight makes my heart break.

I don't kiss her that night, or the next. I don't regret that.

On the train back we are muddy and tired and our bags are heavy. We make small talk.

I wonder what it would be like to lean my head against her.

Enveloped by her hair.

I don't. I don't regret that.

We part ways.

I commit her to poetry. I regret that.