I feel the lavender haze creepin' up on me...Taylor swift.
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My name is Lavender, but he insisted on using Lav as the short form, saying it was easier and suited me best.
Summer melted away like ice under the sun, and fall was now falling like a cascade of colorful leaves around us, but the nickname always had a way of messing with my nerves—in a good way.
"Is that him?" he inquired, nodding towards the magazine in my grasp. I had confided in him a few mistake ago, fueled by alcohol, which culminated in a kiss we both elected to forget.
"I am still better than him," he declared, interpreting my silence as affirmation. I detected a hint of jealousy in his tone, or perhaps my ears were playing tricks on me.
"Yes, you are," I chuckled, dismissing the thought as we strolled along a path blanketed in a 'cobbler crust' of brown sugar and cinnamon.
As summer waned, he beckoned me to join him on an adventure, arguing that the world was too vast to be confined to a single season. I consented without a second thought, and what followed were moments of pure bliss. Occasionally, sparks would fly and be promptly extinguished before they could fully ignite. We opted for camaraderie over romance.
"What will you be sketching today?" I asked, observing him arrange his sketchbook and pencils on the grass. He glanced up meeting my eyes.
"I think I'll capture the most exquisite lavender bloom I've ever encountered." He said. His words, always indirect, unanimous, yet sweeter than honey, sucked from the nectar enough to elicit a sense of longing and desire from me.
He had told me fall was his favorite and wondered why one would like a season where plants wilt, but now watching him, I understood. This season had a way of making everything burst with its last beauty.
Green, giving way to gold.
Leaves drifted earthward, weaving a colorful tapestry underfoot. The scene was all the more enchanting with him at its heart. How I yearned to be the artist, to immortalize this moment on canvas.
But I had my own means of capturing it. With a pen as my wand, I transcribed the sentiments that eluded verbal expression.
"Just this once," I whispered as I penned the first letter.
I think I am okay with this… Thus began the first sentence.
Falling for you in words—merely in words—I reminded myself as my heart fluttered.
…chiseled in pieces on this heart that is vacant. But too small of a will to show, like a tattoo on my skin or confess, the ink running in my veins. Pumping with so much adoration; for you lies my affection.
I may be too shy and sometimes sly, treating you like book; always my muse. And with my words, I make love to you, in pages and in quilts, like we'll never split.
I bit my lip, stealing glances at him through my lashes, my heart racing with the fear that he might discern my thoughts and writings. He looked up from his canvas, and I hastily feigned focus on my page.
…and when we locked eyes, mine darted in a haste, a blushing mess I became of what I have written and imagined—hunting the strings and the nerve.