Just a man, who loves old things
‘twas the early hours, as she lay in bed, the darkness and deafening silence drawing her out of her dreams. Unable to close her eyes in the blinding blackness, she thought of him. She pulled the warmth of the covers around her, shielding off the cold of the early winter morning. It was like being held in his arms, where he could keep her warm and safe, as he said he would. Here she was, after wanderlust took over her fears, thousands of miles away from where she had been for so much of her life. She was a little scared, but more than that she was eager and determined for this new chapter of her life to succeed. This was not the plan though. He, was not in the plan.
She had stopped believing in magic, when her wishes she had made so many times on her burning candles had not come true. The witching hour, she had teased him before… It was absurd, but she couldn’t help to think that there was in fact something mildly magical about this. He was a lover of old things, he had said. And she wondered, what would he see when he gazed upon her? She did not have the beauty of youth on her side any more, as the years had started to etch lines and paint shadows on her face, and here and there a silver hair. What would he see? Would he just see this not so old, but not so young woman before him? Or would he see her as a thing of beauty? Would he look so deep that he would see not only the green flecks that lay within the brown, but also, like the old things he so loves, would he see the stories behind her eyes? Her beauty is not in the shape of her face, or the colour of her eyes, or in her hair that cascades down her shoulders, or in her lips that long to kiss him. Her beauty shines within her soul, from all the tears and all the joy she has lived.
She asks not that he be dashing and debonair. A knight on a horse, or a charming prince, these are but fairy tales. She has already lived the pain of putting her faith into men who think they are mightier than the average Joe, or, even, feel they are far better than she could ever be. She has lived, and loved, and cried, and hurt and she will not go back there, no. She will not go back to where these men, who hold themselves the highest, pushed her down beneath, tormenting her into believing she was worthy of only this. The man she seeks must be just that, a man. A man who would look into her eyes, and see the soul that lies beneath. If a man could see her there, hidden in the deep, lift her soul, up out of those depths, she would give him all of who she is and all that she has ever known. A man who would celebrate who she is, where she comes from, what she has been through and all that she lives for. She would live for him,… With him. Could this be you? This man, who loves old things...
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