My Rosaline

you were always meant to be just a childish giggling lover. maturity will find me and you will be just an after taste

Since I could remember I hated it when people would quote things they really had no handle on. They didn’t know a damn thing about what they were really talking about, but it didn’t stop them from spewing out flowery lines of suggestion and flattery. Those are the people who speak with commonplace ideas. They are the kind that don’t draw beauty from the abstract. They’re the sort of people who can only find things pulchritudinous if they were dealing with a red red rose, or a mid-summer’s day.

I was with this certain girl for quite some time. She was the muse to the only happy things I would write. I would just pump out such mad and fruitful work in the presence or in the thought of her. Unique character plots or stinging lines would be juiced out of me like a slightly over-ripen, bruised orange. They would leave my hands stinking of citric acid and greatness. Until the day she found it fitting to gather her things and leave hand in hand with another man. Abby Rossum, such a beautiful girl, the first I would ever live with out on my own. She gave me my first lesson in the real world; that like a domestic car, her kind would all be interchangeable.

What made me think about her this morning, while crossing the park filled with giggling little toothless children, were the stupid things she would say to me. She would always call me her Romeo and I would always tell her she should read the actual play to see what the couple really meant to each other. But for two years I played along and called her my Juliet until the day she planned to walk out on me. That day I called her Rosaline, and she looked at me as if I were too smart and too stupid all at the same time.

Rosaline was Romeo’s undying love and infatuation before he met Juliet. She was the air under his feet until he met the one he was willing to die for. Mrs. Abby Rossum was always destined to be my Rosaline.