things he couldn’t help but notice Brilliant moons, glittering stars, and soft winds. Those are the most prominent images in my mind from the day I met you. With the wind blowing through your dark curls, the way I wished my hands could, although I had no right. I stared up at the moon in all its brilliance, while you cast your attention to the flowers and weeds burrowed into the meadow's soil. With your fingers dancing over the petals of flowers, I couldn't even begin to name, you spoke. About your day, your concerns, your inner chaos. Once you laid it all out, you turned, and you asked me. About my day, my desires, my inner turmoil. And I gladly laid them upon you as you did me. You’ve never brought me here before. I’ve seen you gaze into flower shop windows, fiddle with purple and pink flowers on a nearby bush and lay amongst a patch of wildflowers as fresh spring rain pattered on to your skin. I detest spring and all its unwanted bearings. Yet, I laid next to you, muddy and uncomfortably wet under hard rain. And then you laughed. So obviously, I smiled and figured I could endure the horrible for a bit of good. You messed with my head. Silence was something my mind craved, thirsted for. Yearned only to exist in this world, away from the noise. Yet, there I was with my hand wrapped tight around yours, following you through the crowded streets and tumultuous crowds. And I knew I’d give anything to be in your presence. Now my mind is full of you. Your laugh, your smile, your worst moments, everything that contributes to the you curling your fingers around the white petals of another stupid flower. Now the rain always reminds me of you. Every flower brings your tender smile into view, and I gaze at it a bit longer, hoping to keep the image of you near. I loved the moon: full, crescent, or gibbous. We were far enough from the city to catch glimpses of stars and constellations. Although awestruck by the glimmering stars accompanying the moon in the night sky, I turned to you and frowned. I thought their majestic beauty would astonish you as well. But no. Your eyes were trained on another dull flower and your fingers dug into the soil as if you could become one with it. I stared up at the gibbous moon in all its brilliance, while you cast your attention to the flowers and weeds burrowed into the meadow's soil. I want to ask: Where is your mind? But I already know the answer. What are you asking of me? Absolutely nothing. Why does it feel as if I am standing here alone? Maybe I am. But I don’t want to break your concentration. Don’t want to take you away from the things you treasure most in this world. How could I when I couldn’t bear the slight look of torture when you reluctantly dragged your eyes away from the flowers to my own? We met when pansies bloomed, when the nights stretched longer, when we were no longer adolescent, when the world offered us our first taste of freedom. You didn’t know what it meant to love. You claimed you never have. But how could that be possible when stars are burning in your eyes, so familiar and firm? So familiar, so firm on those violet pansies. You must’ve fallen in love with them time and time again. How I hoped one day you would look at me the same. Then one day, under a brilliant moon, glittering stars, and soft winds, you turned. Your eyes, akin to stars, were no longer fixed on the stupid flowers in the meadow. No longer fixed on the stupid weeds, nor the drizzling rain cascading from the sky, saturating every bit of nature below our feet. Your eyes were gazing into mine. With the same amount of attention you gave those flowers and weeds burrowed into the meadow’s soil. So familiar, so firm as they were on those violet pansies. Then you spoke. You spoke of love under the gibbous moon. Yet, you didn’t know what it meant to love. How could that be when you just told me love probably felt like your chest whenever I was around you, suffocated and full? Probably felt like your fingers when they danced over petals. Probably felt like laying amongst wildflowers under fresh spring rain. You couldn’t help but notice the straggling leaves on the trees I couldn’t even name. Couldn’t help but notice the wilting rosebuds and the fully blossomed flowers brushing against my cheek. You couldn’t help but notice love, in its arrival.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Adrianna Hall (she/her) lives in New York City. A recent graduate, Adrianna spends most of her days reading and conjuring up new ideas. She loves anything involving astronomy and is currently indulging herself in cozy mysteries and mint hot chocolate.