Mystified
There was always something about her that mystified me. The flow of her long, curly, black hair that she tied back with a red bell ribbon as it blew in the breeze. The sadness she tried to hide in her eyes behind the bits of bangs that fell in front of her face. The way that she smiled, but somehow, it was already deeply heartbroken even though she remembered nothing. The fairness and flawlessness of her skin even though she so adored the sun; everything about her mystified me, and I could never figure out why.
I think it was because even though we were the same age, something about her made her seem older; wiser. Was it the way she spoke? Or was it the way she dressed from time to time? Or was it because she had knowledge and spoke of things from the past like she had actually been there once upon a time? Or maybe it was the sadness on her face that really made her seem that way to me.
How is this girl, who is the same age as I, able to keep me so mystified by her presence that I recognize nothing else, but her when she is around? How does she keep me so entuned to her presence that, in the end, and in this moment, I wouldn’t care if the entire world ended as long as I could have one last look at her.
Image is thanks to Google Images
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