He loved sunsets.
I always found that strange. It made sense that I would be one to like the setting of the sun. But why would someone like him appreciate such a symbol
of ending? It didn’t make any sense to me that he liked sunsets more than sunrises. It didn’t make any sense to me that he chose the ending when he could just as easily have chosen the beginning.
It didn’t make any sense.
In fact, we had many arguments about this; now that I think about it, the intensity with which we argued was quite unnecessary. I always pointed out how sunrises, the start of a new day, are filled to the brim with opportunity; things that he embodied. He was the poster child for the perfect child. He was everything anybody wanted to be.
He was something I never expected to have.
It’s cold, but I don’t want to move. I can feel a breeze penetrate my wool sweater, tickling my neck. The prominence of its presence surprises me, and sends a shiver down my spine. I couldn’t help it – I couldn’t stop film from rewinding. You never knew, did you? The way a simple touch of my cheek, an innocent peck on my forehead, did that to me. I suppose it only makes sense that you never knew.
Because I don’t think I ever knew, either.
I am in the perfect position. It’s the perfect spot; it was our favourite spot. I wonder where you are now. I wonder where you are, who you’re with, whose cheek you last caressed. Do you still think about this spot? Do you still remember that night? My nose stings from bitter winds and even more bitter memories.
Are you watching this?
Above me, the sky is a splendid palette of pink and gold. I can’t help but wonder who the artist is. The richness of the tones, the smoothness of the strokes makes it a painting fit for the Louvre. Only an artist who can measure up to the names of Degas or Monet could have been at the other end of the paintbrush. I remember asking you once to choose between two artists.
You didn’t have an answer.
As I sit here, shivering in beauty, a yawn escapes my frozen lips. It’s six o’clock. I’m cold. Hungry. Exhausted, in more ways than one. And yet I don’t think I’ve ever seen, ever understood beauty more.
Did you ever understand?
You made a choice. You decided you couldn’t choose, and so you chose to leave. I really hope you’re watching the same sky right now, wherever you are. I really hope you realize how much you’ve changed. I really hope you realize how much you meant to me, even if I didn’t show it until it was too late for the both of us. But above all, I really hope you realize how wrong you were – how you saw, but never understood me.
I’ve always loved sunrises.