by finite
 
 
 

I never really believed in Love.

Of course, as a young girl, I never really questioned its meaning. It was always there, in writing, in song, and on
everybody's mind. It was a norm; a compelling mantra which had been instilled into society. And now when I look back, I
know I never really had faith in it.

The pull of that single word is enormous. But the funny thing is I don't think I have met anybody who truly understands
the concept. Who can unravel the complexities of relationships, and cover it with this single well meaning but isolated
word?

I certainly do not claim to. I know better now.

It is a strange twist of fate that led me to this knowledge. I think it springs from being around the enemy too long. We
shocked the whole school. It was surprisingly a comforting thing to shock people. It made me feel satisfied somehow, as
if depression was a kind of solace.

That was a long time ago. Now it still stuns me to think that we are together after all these years. He has been faithful.
That is all I can ask of him.

We don't spend much time together. Being apart is as much part of our relationship as being together. We have no
pretences. We do not go under the title of Love. I can sense him. He is always there, silent and invisible, making sure I
am all right. But he is cold. And he does not Love me.

I go to him now. He is waiting in the shadows as he always does.

I call his name. The familiar reply returns although I cannot see him.

He steps away from the darkness and his beauty overwhelms me.

Shafts of moonlight fall from the sky and illuminate his coldness. He is beautiful yes, but cold and strong. He is not mine.
He hardly seems his own.

I wonder, as I gaze at him, what he sees in me. Does he see weakness? My character is not like his. I am a blemish. He
is power. I am wilting under it.

Neither am I pretty. I have neither perfect features nor graceful posture. He tells me so; that I am not pretty.

He tells me that I am beautiful.

He says that true perfection is a bond between many imperfections. Like nature, he says. Would it look as flowing or
elegant with perfect symmetry? Even butterflies, renown for their symmetry, cannot be as beautiful without their tiny
flaws. I still have doubts. Insecurity.

He tells me that he hates his appearance. But he is withdrawn into it. It is cold.

He knows me.

He looks down at me and his freezing fingertips touch my fiery skin. We kiss. He tells me that he does not love me. I tell
him that I know.

I stare into his steely grey eyes meeting his steely grey soul.

I never really believed in Love.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Without those lies,
Without those ties,
In me you stole
With steel grey eyes,
To steel grey soul,
My last goodbyes
To butterflies.
You've left a hole.
With steel grey eyes,
You steal my soul.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
 
 

A/N: A picture I drew about 2 years ago inspired this fic. The meaning of which is meant to be confusing and perhaps
slightly contradictory. Let me know what you think…did I achieve this??

I'm not sure about the story, but I like the poem : )