To you, who had silhouettes of the sun in your eyes.
I still remember how you kept your glass ruler in the sunlight and made rainbows on my desk with it. You were nice. You were polite nods in the hallway. The quiet of spring mornings. A homemade cake. The shy glint of the moon. The song from your childhood. You were nice. And you were safe. I can’t play safe. God, I’m too messed up to want nice. You’re a sunset and forgive me, but I’ve been wearing tinted glasses all my life.
You’re a castle all on your own, but please know that it can never be my home.
For the ghost boy who pretended to be alive on weekends,
You called me princess a lot, but you never treated me like one. We smiled a lot, but we never happy. We spoke a lot, but never really said anything. We looked at each other a lot, but never with love. Not once with love. And you were always by my side, but you were never really there, were you? Sometimes I still look at my passenger seat and I swear, for a second I catch you passing through. Sometimes when I think I hear my name in an echo, I still look for you.
Sometimes I wonder if I saw fire where there was just smoke.
A letter to the one with the heart of parallel lines.
Boy, we were never in love. But goddamn, I wish we were. I wish you didn’t look at me and smell her bubblegum perfume. I wish I didn’t look at you and hear his laughter. You were always trying to find her in my smile. Like I was a lamp post, and while lamp posts are charming, she was a freaking star. I was always searching for him in your fingertips. You’ve got green eyes, and while they are beautiful, his eyes are wild, yet still manage to look like something that would curl up against your feet.
And you see, that’s why we were doomed. We were so busy chasing the clouds, we forgot to look at the ground.
I hope you’re better now.
You world at war. You chalk outline of a boy. You fever of a person. I was all flight and you were all fight. And I suppose that scared you. You pushed your self destruct button for me and called it romantic. You showed up at my doorstep with rose thorns on your palms and said the flowers were for me. You struck yourself with lightning and then blamed me. You pinned yourself to a cross and thought yourself holy. But baby, baby, my sins are mine alone. And I will die for them.
I never wanted you to ruin yourself for me. And I certainly never asked you to.
I’m sorry I never wrote about you. You were too personal. Too mine to share with anyone else. But god, you were it all. Your hands. They were beaches stitched into palms and I prayed to feel the waves of your fingertips. Your eyes were like illegal fire crackers in a city with more broken bulbs than streetlights. Your lips. They were the bristles on paintbrushes and you painted me pretty. Watercolour teeth and palettes for cheeks. You were art.
And perhaps, if we had more time, I could’ve loved you. And in another place, I would’ve loved you into the cosmos.