If she was...

Open Mic Night

I always knew he loved her. 

Maybe, before he knew himself. 

I could see it in his eyes, the way he was watching her movements. 

It's the same way boys before him had watched the rhythmic movements.

If she was the sun, then he was the child who witnessed the setting of it for the first time. 

If she was the moon, he looked at her like she was the only light in the darkness. 

If she was the trees, then he watched her grow, and fall as the seasons changed.

If she was the rivers, then he had drowned in her. 

If she was fire, then he was a child who hadn't learn not to stick his hand in. 

If she was ice, then he was a child consistently experiencing brain freeze.

But, she was all of these things.

And everyone said that: There was no reason not to follow your heart. 

But, he had a huge reason. 

It would always hurt to him to know the way she looked at him, was the way she had looked at those other boys. 

Because she believed every love was real love. 

She reserved no special look for him.

And, in his eyes, you could never experience a great, same love twice. 

And, what if, she'd had her great love. 

But the look between the two, did awfully strange things to their defences. 

It made them weak, and fragile like a specled glass on a bar top, surrounded by intoxication. 

As people, we are such fragile things alone, but love makes us easier to break.

He couldn't not fathom loving someone else, but he wanted a great love. 

The kind written about in poetry. 

This kind. 

But better.