Life feels stagnant when I'm not around her. No movement from the wind, from the people, or the skies.




It all becomes empty space, for miles and miles.

I want to prove to her I'm not a *******, but the only way I could, would be moving on.
And the day that I move on will be the day that it no longer matters.
She will never know.
Yet again, another contradiction that will live until the day I die.

...So be it, I will prove it to myself.

I tell you all of this with only the truth in mind.
I don't want your pity, your consolations, or those beautiful eyes looking down on mine.

I want you to understand what you're getting into, and I want you to accept that before I swallow you whole.

I have been thrown into a shell of a world to fit in. Hardening as clay in the heat of the summer daylight. Then pulled into an ocean of nothingness carried by the waves of the moon.
The nature of this dimension is like a neighborhood I never found, like a girl I never met, like a life I never lived. Incomprehensible, yet I can string these words together and call it something.

I was not passionless, you were my passion, as much as it may sound like a glorification or romanticization. As much as it may have scared you that I may have been in love with only the idea of you.
   But the proof was undeniable, those two years were based off more than just an idea, it was something more, a feeling, it was life. You were my life, literally.
   You were one of the few things that kept me alive at the time, when I was so terrified of death. With those nights we first spent together, on the golf course, holding hands, and watching that shooting star fall. The nights we would spend in my room just you and I, how I asked if I could lay on your chest, those heartbeats I heard were of the calmest moments in my life. The hours and hours of videogames we would play together, laughing. The things we would watch together as we ate away at what seemed like was our problems. The feeling of your cold floor as I'd walk barefoot to make us tea in your dorms, when I'd lay in bed with you, how cold my feet were as they touched yours, how cold they no longer were after.
   And now that it is once again cold, I can't believe that it was only romanticization, regardless of my claims of being a hopelessly romantic writer, I refuse to believe that. That warmth was not a lie.

A million different ways to tell you that you're beautiful. So let the gods hear me speak of you in a different light. I find you repulsive, yet I'm still here. Let the gods know that I find a million faults in your stars, yet I still love you.