You were never tangible to me. You were made of objects and feelings, woven together. You were an old grey sweater that I use to wrap round me on brittle autumn days as trees shed themselves into their most honest appearance. Both frayed, mothballed and held the smell of old cigarettes, dirt, and cologne. On the porch we would sit, you, the sweater, fall, curving softly to my shoulders. Dazzling, burning, yearning leaves falling to cup the ground, as you cupped the contours of my face.
You were that song we played all winter. Its tune arched and writhed on its eight legs, whirling me, cradling me through the darkened days. As we sat crinkled by the fire, the song spun between us, its silvery web bringing us closer in a fervid bond. It rose and fell with its own heartbeat until it gracefully died, just to vociferously crescendo again, like your laugh.
You were those silly rain boots I found in the spring, one boot babbling and chattering in its own squeaky language that only its mate knew. Shiny, yellow, and ridiculously cheerful on days that storm clouds gathered across my face. But after each disturbance, we made sure to splash through each glassy-topped puddle.
You were that floppy hat I found in the antique shop, its brim shading my face while we lounged on the pappy beach. Sand smoothed feet entangled as an enchanting wind alluringly tried to coax it off, however it stayed dutifully gracing the top of my head. I watched your freckled face as you tipped my chin to meet your sun-beat lips.
And then you were real.