You were pale and shivering. The cold did not realize how fragile you were. How soft and vulnerable you were. How you didn’t deserve to feel the chills seep into your bones. And you did not realize how you deserved someone entirely less disheveled and more put-together, more lovable than I am.
your lips taste of the peanut m&m’s straight from the jar and of drunken promises in the dead of night. our eyelids are shut and our eyelashes tangle from the closeness of us. your warmth is everywhere and i can hear every word you murmur against my skin: “you’re lovely, beautiful, i wish you were mine,” and i tell you to stop talking, because it makes no sense to wish for something you already have
he said he loved me when i laughed, when i giggled like that, and i reveled in his affections. danced around in the rain and sang off-key and kept smiling, “you glow with that iridescent glow,” he said, and my heart bubbled but when my dark days came he wouldn’t listen to me when i cried. he didn’t listen when each piece of me fell away crashed onto the pavement. he didn’t hold me or chase the demons from my dreams and he let the rain and the gray puddles soak me, wash all my colour to pale shades. he said he loved me when i laughed, when i giggled but the frilly giggling girl is dead he let her die
DISCLAIMER: The girl behind the scrawled words and frills and daydreams doesn’t know how to be loved. She writes about love and she knows how strong love is but she doesn’t believe it could actually happen to her. The girl who writes about love and butterfly kisses and someone else’s happy endings is a cynic and an insecure mess. She’s a hypocrite who thinks everyone deserves something beautiful except her. And she needs somebody to change her mind.
I loved you and I wanted to tell you but I lost all my words like I did my blue and green and silver marbles when I was little, I lost them because I wasn’t paying attention to much except the color of the sky and the song of the stars that I heard again when I looked into your eyes
He wrote her hundreds and hundreds of letters but didn’t send any of them. He wrote about love and sunlight and eyelash wishes but he tucked the words away between pages of overdue library books, among branches of apple trees, and under coffee tables. He buried the bits of paper under rosebushes and stop signs and rainbow pebbles, and tossed the envelopes into the crystal blue of the ocean. He wrote hundreds and hundreds of them and he know how to paint words into ink on paper and how to put on the stamps just right but he didn’t know how to be brave enough to send them.