"Perhaps," he said.
I didn't say much 'cause my tongue was filled with agony and despair. Deep roots wilted and ripped out by force. But I did feel it... hope.
You see, I was called a flower even when I was wilting. I was called a butterfly... his butterfly, before I even reached metamorphosis.
It was definitely hard to believe that anyone could love someone like me. Without denial nor shame, I must admit...
She must admit that indeed she tried love before, but it was never this strong.
I know you are wondering something right now with your cute little mind. What is happening? Why does her... why does my perspective change so often? Why do I go from narrator to her... to me so often?
It's because, my dear Dino, right now you are witnessing different parts of me fully let out to spill on ink so you may read.
So the boy said, "Perhaps," and I said, "Definitely." I always loved loving. But, come on now, how come I haven't managed to find you earlier, little puppy? I would have cared for and petted you even more.
"I just, I don't know. I want someone to just not judge me, someone I could come home to and cry my guts out," said the not-so-well-disguised moon boy. He wanted to be cherished, to be loved, to be taken care of, to have no shame put on him. And then his flower girl plucked herself just so that she could be closer to him.
"My dream is to be a wife someday," said the flower. You said you would take me to the moon as a reference. I didn't get it, but I understood later on. Perhaps there was no need. If you are my moon, does this mean I will get taken by you? Make me your prisoner and never let me go.
I remember—cough—she remembers when she said, "I love you," the first time. "I genuinely want to be your man," he wrote on her soul. She said, "I love it." Then, "I love you." Then, "I love you, my flower girl." I still wondered what bloomed—was it perhaps the love or was it for the first time, existence?
Oh, Mr. Dino, Mr. Dino, how you want to come and feel me! How you have catapulted out the fearing. The fair words you spoke with your shaken-up soul spoke tales of adoration higher than the ever-expanding dimensions and existence of the universe and space. You, with your fair little mouth, have supported my existence.
Often through the days, living in the palace left alone to rot, you show up and make everything feel anew. The shanties you whistle, the words you write—the sweet, angelical soul reaches so deep within me I cannot find words, even if I was a higher being that possibly created existence, to be able to express the feathers in my heart.
As my crusted eyes stay up, writing of the most romantic man to grace the graceless, upon realization, I realize once more I am your woman.
You heard her, didn't you? Your woman. Mr. Dino, I don't get how you did it sometimes... how you managed to make Apa want to live. Her existence was filled with "him's" and suicide strings, yet you affirmed her. You cheeky boy, Mr. Dino. You really love her, don't you? I do, too.
Was I supposed to say, "I love you"? You know I can't have that; I need new "I love you's."
I know you love eating raw fish, but instead of fish, I crave something. Maybe it's sexual, perhaps... It's very hot, warm, and easy to love... It tastes good... I can easily put it in me, and I never want it to get out. I need it deep inside, hard and fast. Oh, you pervert, Mr. Dino! It isn't your "Raaaah" or the "Grr" (although you know full well I am a naughty girl). It's your soul, cutie. Your soul.
Was that a good "I love you"?
How the hell am I supposed to come up with new ways to say something I keep saying?
As the gal was thinking on how to say new "I love you's," she felt the temperature a bit cold... slight underwear on her only... a position so risky you would just want to go in. Her hands feeling a bit tired, some unnecessary blue light from electronics blasting into her face indicating a very late night... slight snores here and there from a not-so-accepting house. But, you know what she was thinking about? Orange hour... feeling so safe, so smooth. With you. I would love to have an orange hour with you, as you say.
Perhaps when we do get married, it will be an orange hour—not to feel the sadness nor to mourn, but to know that we have healed our inner child with someone else just as childish and lovable as each other. I want an orange hour at our wedding, so that I could shower you with my soul while the night approaches and my fire burns and lightens stronger.
My favorite color has been black, but maybe that changed, too, since I met you. Orange, huh? A symbol of optimism, happiness, enthusiasm... It does fit us pretty well, don't you think so, too, my husband?