I decided that I wasn't going to write about you for once.
So instead, I wrote about the way that when I tilted my head back, the sun blinded me and left star-bright imprints on the back of my eyes. I wrote about the sudden warmth. I wrote about the way that it kissed my cheeks and left them dark.
Instead, I wrote about the gales that wrecked havoc across the mountainside. I stood on an outcrop, and when the wind howled, I screamed back at it until it stole my voice and your name and also my hat. I'd like that back.
I wrote about the way that the soft breezes felt as they ran across my face. I didn't write about the fact that it felt like you were brushing your fingers through my hair.
I dipped my fingers into the stream, and I grasped the water as though it were quicksilver. It sped away from me, and I watched it go with a feeling which was too content to be sadness, but too wistful to be joy.
I wrote about the way that cumulus clouds turned from white to grey to startling crimson, and the valley was bathed in gold. I wrote about the way that the sun shone through the cirrostratus, and they pulled the sun's rays apart so that I could see each one in all of it's glory.
By the end of it, I had pages full. I had fingers that were stained dark with ink. I had a collection of a fossil, a pebble, a robin's eggshell and a honeysuckle blossom.
And I was haunted by the memory of the way that you gazed at the planet, awestruck.
I was haunted by the memory of how you pointed at all of these wonders, and how the world was so beautiful to you.
By the end of it, I was left with pages of scribblings, a smattering of life, and such gratitude as I didn't know what to do with.
So I wrote about you.
