Slow

I wrote this on a napkin the night I met you, fumbling in my purse for a pen, spellbound at the sight of you.

You took the stage like a normal girl, but once your lips parted your truth was revealed. Warrior. Lover. Angel.

Please don’t be a real woman, don’t tell me your name, how old you are, or whether you like the rain. I would have you immortalized, adorned in icicles, my goddess of the north.

I watched as your dazed eyes fell on the crowd. Our eyes never met. The careless patrons drinking their wine laughed at something unrelated, and I watched as you took that laughter in and made it your judgment. You took it as a blow, a denial – and yet you pushed harder. Your fences went up and you simply let go, cupping the mic like a lover’s breast and singing with complete abandon. It didn’t go unnoticed, not by me.

Gentle thank you’s seemed out of place from the gut wrenching wails that had graced your lips, yet you muttered them, polite and trained. The end of every song brought us both back to reality, the crowd breaking the silence you created.

No, don’t be a real woman, let me keep you in your green satin frame, with the ice of your blue eyes glancing unimpressed upon my shadow.