Philology
Philology: the love of words.
I loved him for his words. It was really that simple.
His heartfelt lyrics and his breathtaking sonnets had me absolutely entranced. I was smitten to my very core.
I did not love the way his eyes gleamed as he smiled charmingly at me, but rather, how they sparkled in sheer elation at the completion of yet another verse. I did not love the way his hair hung in his eyes as he leaned in for a kiss, but rather, how a few strands would tickle his lashes as he bent over a notebook, scribbling away madly. I did not love the way his wrist muscles flexed as he held my hand tightly, but rather, how they contracted and loosened periodically as he put those beautiful words on paper.
I adored his uncanny ability to forever capture a moment in time with more eloquence than I'd ever imagined possible. I adored how his wit seemed to jump from the page, almost too superior for its two-dimensional parchment prison. I adored the way his struggles became mine, as did his ideals, from just three or so marvelously well-written lines donning a previously blank sheet of loose-leaf. I adored this all, but in no way did I adore him.
However, even as his creations became few, and his remaining days even fewer, we lasted, for his words remained bright like a lighthouse just off the shore.
I loved him for his words, nothing more.
A/N: Yes, this is very random, but Bright Eyes' Lover I Don't Have To Love and a seventh grade journal full of Greek and Latin roots inspired me.
I think this is pretty cool. Everyone else? I guess we can consider this my second ever attempt at a one-shot. This will not be expanded. I'm not budging on that, probably. Who knows? I'm so damn easily swayed.
Inform me of your thoughts. My ears are open.
Natalie.