July 24, 2011
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Brad. Like a soft rose petal landing on a smooth stone surface. Brad. Like the sound of shrubs and trees whispering when a gale rushes by. Brad. Like a piece of drift wood being pulled through a fresh blanket of snow. Brad. Like a cat purring by an open fire. Brad. Like a piece of sugar melting on my tongue. I fill my lungs with his name. I say it a couple of times out loud and I am reminded of the watermelon from the barbecue the day I met him. I remember the smell of his shirt as I walked by him: crisp laundry detergent. I remember the way he looked at me when I greeted him: a look of serenity and nothing else. I remember his warm, calm smile as the light of day dimmed and the only way to see him was if he was near one of the floating tea lights. I remember the pain of being forced to leave and hoping that he would look back at me as I walked through the gate.

But I knew he wouldn’t. He is blind, and he will never ever look back at me. Ever.

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