rose colored

She was trying to let him go.

But he would always be with her:

a mist frozen in time,

covered in a rose colored hue.

And she knew that what she thought of so often,

however unwillingly, was not him.

In life, he had never been this perfect creature that invaded her mind now.

He had been human, with all the flaws and faults that go along with such a name.

And she knew it, but the memories lie.

In them, his face was a little too handsome,

his smile, a little too wide.

The words he spoke once had become garbled somehow,

and she could not always seem to make sense of it.

Perhaps he had not even loved her.

But he had.

In his own self-assured, arrogant, over-compensating way, he had loved her dearly.

After all that had happened and all the time that had passed,

she knows that he had been in love with her all along.

That when he finally had acted on it, it was against his

better judgement, against his doubts, and in spite of his own timid mind.

And she wishes she would have seen the truth much sooner,

long before it was too late.

She sees him sometimes:

in the turn of a head,

in the topography of another man’s hands,

in the way a person might carry themselves when

walking a street they had never walked before.

And it makes her recall thoughts and feelings and moments

she had forgotten for a time.

And in her mind’s eye she sees him again,

washed in a rose colored hue.

And she is happy and sad in that little piece of time.

And she wonders what happens to a person when they die.

And she thinks about her own lack of living.

And she wonders if she will ever be with him again,

at some later time when perhaps someone will think of her face

and it, too, will be bathed in a rose colored hue.

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