Her, as Perfect Syllables

A poetic prose

A girl floating in the Indian Ocean, Taken by: Chloë Dennis

The first time I had met her, I looked up every name beginning with E, as if I could find one that fit her more perfectly. Do you ever view a person, and exclusively let them sit on the tip of your tongue, calling them anything but what they told you would be further than wrong? Not just really wrong, but abrasively wrong.

As if “Erin” wouldn’t have resonated as much as the ending of her name, the A being so specifically decadent that eriN wouldn’t fit.

But then, even “Ella” didn’t sit either, the double L’s just not reflecting the sound that you make after slipping on dry socks after letting your boots collect an hour of rain, or really, more accurately, after peeling off a personalized envelope with your name written with cursive intention. Because it wasn’t really the aesthetic of the sound, or, even the falseness of another name. It was the dead-on purity of it.

The mixture of vowels with whatever else you call the rest of the alphabet, was, the reason the combination felt so sweet. She really is something specific yet nothing exact. A woman of certainty, but also that of reaction.

I didn’t know, really, if this meant I wanted to attain what it was that she so correctly held, or, if I really just craved to watch her peach stained lips curve into her own syllables, maybe even mine too. I don’t think I wanted to allow myself to get that far. Her name was so seared into my tastebuds, that I believe I could truly never erase her title.

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