Oct 2016
It takes a hand to light a candle, and a gust to blow it out;
I loved a boy who would argue that his hair is brown, but I have always believed it to be an ashy blonde, a boy who's eyes changed from green to golden depending on the light, and who had skin of porcelain that he never quite liked. In the mornings he would wake up, put on some music, and dance around his room with a cigarette in his hand, grabbing his jeans off the chair and his shirt from the drawer. He would run cold water through his hair, take a glance in the mirror, and then exit down the stairs. I would always take a seat while he had one foot out the door, because he had a tendency to always forget to grab his keys.
The hand that lights a candle could also hide the flame.
Years passed and his hair was not quite as long, but still very ashy. He still danced around to music, but to a different song; Bruce Springsteen couldn't match his mood quite like The Weeknd could. He'd grab his cigarette, run his fingers through his hair, and forget his keys, still, before reaching the door. The flame may have been hidden, but the heat left my fingertips raw
I loved this boy with my whole heart. I still do. I hope he never stops dancing in the mirror before he goes to work, and I hope he still watches Jeopardy at 7 'o clock. I hope he never stops rapping the words that fill his heart; and I hope the world never tears him apart.
I loved him once, and always will. But we're not in love anymore.
& the flame burned out**
NJ2016
I loved a boy who would argue that his hair is brown, but I have always believed it to be an ashy blonde, a boy who's eyes changed from green to golden depending on the light, and who had skin of porcelain that he never quite liked. In the mornings he would wake up, put on some music, and dance around his room with a cigarette in his hand, grabbing his jeans off the chair and his shirt from the drawer. He would run cold water through his hair, take a glance in the mirror, and then exit down the stairs. I would always take a seat while he had one foot out the door, because he had a tendency to always forget to grab his keys.
The hand that lights a candle could also hide the flame.
Years passed and his hair was not quite as long, but still very ashy. He still danced around to music, but to a different song; Bruce Springsteen couldn't match his mood quite like The Weeknd could. He'd grab his cigarette, run his fingers through his hair, and forget his keys, still, before reaching the door. The flame may have been hidden, but the heat left my fingertips raw
I loved this boy with my whole heart. I still do. I hope he never stops dancing in the mirror before he goes to work, and I hope he still watches Jeopardy at 7 'o clock. I hope he never stops rapping the words that fill his heart; and I hope the world never tears him apart.
I loved him once, and always will. But we're not in love anymore.
& the flame burned out**
NJ2016
