I am Forever Yours

Love is perceived as only being capable in the young. Throughout  the story the reader is lead to see the couple as young but at theend of the story it is revealed they are an old couple.This text’spurpose is to make the reader re-think their perspective on love  and that it isn’t a set idea. It can be experienced within all    ages, all genders, all races, all religions etc.

‘I am forever yours’ are the words that pulse around in my head as we burrow into each other. It is the evening of winter and therefore cold outside. Watching the bleary view of crystallised flakes spiralling past the window, stimulates a shiver down my spine and I take it as a cue to dig deeper into his body. A nervous giggle escapes my mouth as I fold into him.

We met at the local library. Our relationship was like a fairytale from the beginning, but weirdly, I was the the girl that the prince charming fell for- even with my awkward personality and guarded shell of protection. I had been sitting in the corner on a wingback chair, moulded to my figure. My usual spot. Engrossed in a book, the world around me vaporised and all I cared about was the outcome of Jane Eyre’s simmering desire for Mr. Rochester. Would she be able to reveal her strong attraction towards him and would he share the same emotional connection?

Although I was in a different world, I could never miss him. Sam was the type of boy that made any girl swoon. I neglected my interest in whether Jane’s wedding would work out despite the mysterious ripping of her wedding veil during the night, to stare longingly at him.

Just as I do now. Sam’s fingers tiptoe along my forearm like a spider spinning its web; his grip sliding delicately up my sleeve to pull me closer. I hold his hand still, pressing my palm to his, fingers intertwined.

The fire crackles in the background, licking its lips as it feasts on the piled up wood; flicking in anomalous directions. West, East, West, North, West, North-East, South-West, North, East… Distorted flames erratically jerking up and around the chimney. Shades of red, orange and yellow light up the room like a glow-worm in the dark, rays stretching out and illuminating our figures. It casts distorted shadows on tea stained walls; elongated grey picture frames, chairs, coffee tables and cabinets are graffitied over the peeling edges. The luminous fire splashes across the vase, constructing a fractured floral wallpaper behind where we sit. However, I am immersed in Sam and the background harmony of the fire is distant. No sparks of moisture pockets bursting free from the wood reach my ears; no monster-shaped stencils distract me.

That day at the library, Sam caught my gaze. It was a moment that would be in a compassionate novel and I was surprised, to say the least, when he came and sat down next to me. He sat. Next to ME! When he talked, it came easy to him: words would flow out his mouth, dancing off each other to create a masterpiece of conversation. He was a tailor when it came to threading sentences together. Intrigued by the complexity of this boy, I analysed him, engaged in conversation with an occasional murmur, nod or a scrunch of the shoulders. Later, we talked for hours on the phone. Day in, day out.

When the phone resonated, I would feel sick. The sound waves vibrating sent a pulse through my body and caused my mind to go haywire. It was chaos in my chest, pounding heart, heavy breathing. Leaves were kicked up by the wind in my stomach, swirling around. Giddiness replaced fear and fear would be replaced by resentment before succumbing to gratification when I picked up the phone and heard his voice crackle through the speaker. Perspiring hands clung to the bar of soap that we communicated through. I was fragile when in love; thoughts of him made me melt in a pool of my own sweat and grin like a little girl. Already vulnerable, my knees would become weak from laughter, tearing me down to the ground. An elated monstrosity in these times.

It sounds cliche but it happened. Perhaps Sam’s perspective is different but in my head, these details are palpable. For me, it was real. No doubt. However, I know this moment with Sam now is true as I embrace him, clinging to stay on the rocking chair; back and forth we motion as babies being cradled to sleep. I bunch up the ends of my sleeves to lock out the cool air; my knitted jumper scratches my skin as the wool weaves its way up my arms. Itching, I tolerate it as I don’t want to disturb what we have, our comfort. We are wrapped up in sheepskin blankets that bend over us like reeds in the wind. Soft strands spiralling out from the leather padded hide; a white army charging onwards, penetrating my skin with an invisible force field of warmth. Draping over our bodies, we become one.

Outside, the sky has dimmed. Following the gentle fall of snowflakes that are like holes to the smeared charcoal backdrop, my head wanders. I think about glasses and how us humans overlook these objects that consume a portion of people’s day to day lives. The presence of glasses is so prevalent that we evade its existence, as though its rims do not perch on our ears and nose. Taken for granted, we forget that without the aid of these instruments, we would be blind. Sam’s glasses are anchored to the bridge of his nose, indenting his malleable skin and sticking out from the frames, his feathered eyebrows cast a wild shadow over his eyes.

After getting to know Sam, I continued to be enchanted by his demeanour. As time went on, our relationship bonded; we were two atoms looking to become stable but needed the help of each other to do so. In April, Sam and I sealed our devotion to each other, committed to fighting in the battlefield of love between our two passion driven hearts and forever electrified by his appeal. We continued to fight for each other, soldiering on with new responsibilities. I learnt not to be a writhing mess when around him but became a composed ballerina of affection. Although, I always receive the broadcasted surges of desire and longing. I cherished that he was mine.

He is mine. Sam’s companionship is an antidote to my suffering. Soothing. Like a Strepsil to the throat, a cooling sensation. He has the ability to comfort me when I feel I am losing everything and I beg for the end. I take his shaking hands, rubbing my thumb over the crevasses that traverse across his skin. It droops but I am adamant that this is a gesture of gravity’s presence, not old age. Through blurry vision I gaze into his eyes; blue shades rippled together to create a whirlpool of trust, compassion and admiration. Waves of attraction still allure me into him, even with so many years that have past. I trace the creases that seep out from the edges of his eyes, working the maze of cracks that finally lead me to his pursed lips. Parched, my lips bisect in two to form a smile and I reply: ‘And I am Forever yours’.

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