You came in and moulded me soft.
I was a peach. Soft fuzz baby with smooth skin and sweet sunrise in my flesh.
You held me for months. Warm in your hand – sturdy fingers, rounded nails, knuckles a little tanner than the rest – and I moulded soft.
Vulnerable; whispering secrets into the valley. Loud; shouting exclamations from the top of a mountain. Watching the city melt dark beneath us and then going down to meet it – finding the streets under our feet by accident. Taking the wrong turn on purpose. Every single moment with you was a mistake that we kept making because it was the kind of year where everything would only happen once and if it was a one-time-never-repeated thing than of course we wanted to make sure we got it wrong.
But wrong turned out to be a miracle.
I was a long legged, ungainly little miracle. With freckles and messy hair and three pimples and cracked lips. Salty and laughing and dressed with wonky eye liner and bright red shorts and a too big letterman jacket that didn’t fit right.
I was soft. With big dreams that oozed out of me unashamedly and hands open, palms up to the universe, with a heart that loved so ferociously that I had nothing to fear. Because love was my greatest asset and my biggest beauty and the thing that I trusted in and I had love that was brave and was pure and was so soft.
So malleable, so encompassing, so special.
But soft can be encased without being lost. Soft can be hidden, it can sleep.
You were my one wrong thing. The thing that I did with no thought to the future and no nod to the past. The thing that I wanted in the way you shouldn’t want things – with hungry ambition, with self-sacrificial intent, with a slow burn that won’t die out no matter how much you extinguish it.
And after you I was committed to the right way.
But the right way is hard.
And I was moulded soft.