it all starts somewhere. me, i started with you. writing about you hurts more than it's worth, but somehow i can't learn how to stop. i started catching your glass tears at seven years old when you begged me to be your friend, cause you didn't have any. back then i was stubborn and naive, the worst combo really. i didn't make friends that begged me to, they always seemed too desperate, too needy. even i knew back then i didn't need things like that. yet, i declared us friends anyway. perhaps it was the way your freckles danced as you sniffled or how your lips trembled mind-numbingly.
there are fragments of you in my writing. something i can never shake away. my hands were fragile, and as your glass tears fell from your face they broke, scratching and cutting my hands. i remember watching the blood drip as the days went on, both time and innocence blurring together until i lost one. and soon, i started loosing the other. so i wrote about these pains and miseries, hoping there's someone out there knowing what i've been through, willing to say i'm not alone. come to find out, you're my muse: the way your long eyelashes flutter, brushing away feelings and the sorrowful curiosity that waters over the brown intensity of your eyes.
being with you is like spending a day with leftover rain. your life is an endless thunderstorm, that fate makes me part take in. the breeze blows ballads into our faces and it rains heartache. but a few days a year, we get to walk without having to hear the sound of thunder and chaos crashing down. we reminisce about the past as one would walk in puddles of leftover rain; honestly, it's all the same. crazy enough, I like those kinds of days.
our love was golden; a rarity barely anybody gets to experience with. you were forever looking up, awaiting the day you learned if heaven was real or imaginary. and i know it pained you to think about things like that, but we knew everything you went through hurt you worse. it always seemed like you had an affair with freedom and silence, loving them more than you did me.
i'll write more stories then you'll ever read. i was prepared to spend the rest of our lives together, but it seemed fate was done reading our chapter. you never read a single one of my published pieces; perhaps it was a good thing? they were all melodramatic ideas centered on you. and everyone who whispered the words superficial at your funeral, i made sure to write down their names, they'll be good characters to formulate into something people hate.
Word Count: 455
lowercase intentional. Finished: 5/7/2020