A Rare Bird

He was tall – over six feet – and lanky, with a spare body and broad shoulders. Quiet and retiring, he did not immediately draw attention to himself in groups. But get yourself alone with him, or even with a handful of people, and he became magnetic, undeniable, charming, even silly at times.

I looked into his eyes and fell in love with him. It was as simple and as half-witted as that. You know it is love when you spend hours, days, months, trying to argue yourself out of it. And fail. And fail miserably when you look into his eyes again, deep-set raincloud blue, full of a sort of boyish honesty that is hard to gaze into without giving back.

We danced too much when we first met, to any song on the radio, in absurd public places. And I held on tight because when you find love you should dance with it anywhere, unashamed; you should laugh when he whispers jokes and cry when he’s away for the weekend, because love comes once and alights like a rare bird and you cannot cage it, you can only feed it crumbs and try to become its caretaker, and hope it winters with you.

He was tall – over six feet – and lanky, with a spare body and broad shoulders.

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