somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish to be close to me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending

nothing which are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility, whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing.

(i don't know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

e.e. cummings


Distant memory

He was not the type to save memorabilia and normally he didn't do it.
But it was different with the small piece of material his hands were holding at the moment. Softly, his right thumb stroke the declining photograph which captured the moment but at the same time was not able to capture it since time passed by nevertheless.
But it was a memory. Though the colours already started to fade, his memory of that day was still vivid, distant indeed, but not forgotten and etched in his mind.
A small and wistful smile appeared on his face while his eyes focused on the picture.

It had been taken on a sunny afternoon, the sun bathed everything in its light and her normally dark and curly hair sparkled auburn in the golden light of the sun.
She wore a pair of jeans and a white short-sleeved, embroidered blouse, quite plunging though. People don't change.
Her face was flawless and seemed to radiate joy. Her blue greenish eyes glittered and a bright smile was spread all over her face.
She looked younger, her face was not yet lined with stress and all the small and big disappointments that digged in faces over time.

The other person on the photgraph was he himself. The awkwardness of him was as noticeable as the pull she exerted on him.
He stood aside her, not close enough to touch her or to put an arm around her, but close enough to show their connection.
None of them had known in which direction it was going, but it was going somewhere.
He watched her furtively, his eyes focused all of their attention on her and seemed to absorb eagerly every detail of her shape, of her face, well aware of the transiency of the moment, not sure how many of them were about to come yet.

He loved the photograph and looked at it whenever he felt down which occured quite often. It was like a witness from a long passed time, where he had been different, not exactly happier but maybe filled with more hope.
And not aware of the things that were about to come.

Once he had forgotten the picture in the hospital, admittedly it was well hidden but he was scared that someone had found it anyway. He didn't even want to think about the consequences this would bring along. It would have hit his tender spot, the topic he was vulnerable about the most. But he had been lucky.
When he had returned he had found the photograph where he had hidden it, quickly put it in a pocket of his jacket and left the hospital again.
House had been utterly relieved and had put the picture at a safe place in his apartment.
He hadn't looked at the picture since then.

Until today.

After this huge argument he had had with her. Again. In hindsight he didn't know why it had got this bad but he had said some things he regretted now. But it was too late to apologize and he was not the type for apologies anyway.

He sighed and looked at the picture once more.
All of sudden he noticed that something was different and knitted his brow.
Then he flipped the photo over. And saw her handwriting.

You know who they are. And I want you to know that every fiber of my substance always only wanted to tell the story of these two persons.
But what am I supposed to do now as I just see the end and everywhere only behold a beginning?
Begin a new one?
I love you...
We have to tell many stories.
Because we only have one.