Memories

November. The chilly autumn day bit at my skin.
It reminded me that despite the picturesque view
fall bestowed itself upon us.
We drove up the winding roads

Ferrand. The name was new to me then.
Little did I know I would cross that road many times.
But I was naive to the events to come.

The house was crowded with people.
All of them foreigners.
I saw them as invaders into my personal space.
Their fake smiles and high pitched voices.
I was afraid.

I was a warrior defending myself from my own comrades.
I drew battle lines to allies.
I did not know. I was naive.

I withdrew from the room. From the crowd.
From my friends.

But you saw me. As you strummed your guitar slowly, you looked at me.
You looked at me like I was important.
Nothing condescending.
It was pure.
You observed me like a piece of artwork.
I was delicate almost untouchable. But my presence was thought-provoking.
You didn't devour me with your eyes. Push me down in your mind and use me for what you wanted.
No.
Your eyes touched me with softest feather. Tracing my body, enjoying the little things.
The curvature of my arm. The lines of my shoulders. The delicate bones of my wrists and ankles.

I was drunk off of that look.
Now that we have become good friends, I glance over from time to time
catching the same look on your face.

Every time we drive up Ferrand road, I think of November.