Drabble: Poetry
Author's Notes
I can't format this the way I'd prefer to on my phone, so I'll come back to an edit it later, most likely.
He was never one for poetry. Flowery words melodically written in a suggested pace and rhythm or shape, visually speaking.
He was never one for hearing the romanticized perspective of something elementary, like the dirt beneath your feet or the sound of the wind. He was not fond of it with complexities, either; those were hard enough to explain as is.
He never enjoyed it, but at minimum he understood it. The struggle to put a feeling to words, so you make it an explanation of sorts. Give it a form compiled of shapes and ideas and flavors easier for the majority to understand. To digest and process using sensations familiar to form a new one, like pieces to a puzzle, until the mash of colors starts to look readable somehow. Like a painting entirely composed of similes and analogies.
But there was a way to describe everything as it was, without the rose-tinted glasses or flare of romanticism. It was not bad to describe things so elaborately, but it cluttered things.
Or, perhaps, that was entirely his own bias. He loathed when people took a flowery turn when gathering information.
He doesn't care that her hair flowed and shimmered like tousled silk bed sheets on a romantic night. You didn't hire him to fantasize about your wife. You hired him to see if that shitehawk gang leader who keeps starting turf wars kidnapped her.
It was definitely his bias. But still, he could understand where it was coming from -- especially if it was in regards to love.
Even he would ponder on elaborate yet somehow perfect reaches of comparisons whenever he thought about her. How her smile reminded him of the stars. How her eyes were vibrant like autumn leaves. Her hum reminiscent of a careful, slow pull of a bow across a lone cello in an empty room. Enough solitude to be left uninterrupted, yet personal enough to be heard through an ear to her chest. Hypnotic in its steady, soft sound, until your name would slip through her lips in that low note as she caught you almost asleep on her once again.
He was never one for poetry. There was a way to describe everything as it was, without the rose-tinted glasses or flare of romanticism, but she was never known for being an easy one.
When words are all that remain on it, maybe the flowery descriptors aren't that bad.