He spoke in minor chords- his voice a combination of melancholy songs and deep, meaningful inflections. One always got the impression that when he partook in a conversation, that part of him was somewhat removed, as if remembering a lost love, or recalling a special poem. His eyes would sort of glaze over, and you'd know he was somewhere else. Regardless of the importance of the discussion at hand, I inherently found this habit of his more endearing than annoying. How could I not? I was in love with him.
His hair was a deep, resonant blonde that bore it's history, in steaks of yellow, stretching back to the windmills and tulips of a Holland long past. Wild Pacific-Ocean was the shade of his blue eyes, and within them they held the depths of the swells of so-many waves.
He was mine, but for a moment in time, in the startingly fresh way a person can belong to another, more a connection than an ownership. Our eyes, our hands, our bodies interlocked, and we felt that compelling need for one another, that engulfing fire that burns out before it has the proper chance to grow into all it's possibilities.
Yes, he was mine, and I know that he tried to stay, tried to relinquish his traveler's heart for the committment of togetherness, but the uncontrollable nature of solidarity continually fueled his desires, and I simply could not compare.
On drizzle-tinged New York evenings, as I drink coffee with whomever I'm currently seated across from, my mind is inexplicably drawn back to him, and I remember his music-voic, haunting me with his words, like song lyrics I can not forget. The most beautiful phrase he ever chocked out, amidst tears of apologies, was "good bye".