She jots down her feelings into that black journal with the red rose on the faded cover and the spine made out of red yarn to keep it held together. She writes about a boy, and how he has one green eye and one blue. I guess you could say he was a beautiful human being to her. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She never experienced any touchy touchy feely feely crap, but he had the veiniest arms and it's as if he had the roots of a tree clinging to him. She wanted those hands, those send, around her body. She wanted to kiss his lips to see if he tasted like a hurricane or a tornado, or simply even a raindrop. When you're around her hands get all clammy, her palms are soaked, as if she's holding the ocean in her hands, this is what sweaty palms of nervous love is. She wrote about how his eye was as blue as the ocean she was drowning in after he had gone and how the other was as green as the leaves on the tree she fell from when she first met him. She wrote about how that was the same tree whose roots clung to his arms and when she fell she lost her roots. His lips that she oh so dearly wanted to kiss were as red as the rose whose thorns pricked her heart and made it bleed and hurt every single time it beat. And his blond hair looked to be as yellow as the sun that she could find even on the cloudiest days, where the clouds were thick and the rain pouring but she found shelter being held in his arms. She loved counting the freckles on his face that were as numerous as the night stars. She fell in love with every single detail about him, yet she never saw the way he looked at her. She could paint a perfect picture of him just by memory, making sure every perfect detail was included, but she didn't see herself as beautiful as the boy with the blue eye and the green eye did. She's scared of him though, no matter how beautiful he may be, no matter how much he reminds her of the sun, or the roots of trees clinging to him like cobwebs clinging to her un-kisses okays. She wonders, what if she keeps quiet, what if she won't destroy you, but she's really hoping she doesn't destroy you with her smile, she doesn't want you to look for a way out when you haven't even made your way in. She finds her dad in silverware, as it clatters and falls to the floor, especially knives, dressed in memories, they stab her in the back like he stabbed her mom, he's why she's so scared, her Father up and left without reasoning, she's scared to put her trust in you like she did him. But, she'll find you in scalding water, as she's washing years of giving up off her history book hands... You're that abandoned building with a Danger sign hammered to a white chipped paint door, she's taking a chance and she's going to judge you for what's inside, and hopefully no halloween masks are covering up your heart, making you someone you're not. She's scared of what she will find inside but also knows she can't turn back when she find out. No matter what wires are broken and how unstable the building is she'll take her chances knowing that she very well can die in there but that would be better than dying before exploring the heart of her lover. She takes her adventure to learn more about this mysterious boy to find what lies behind his eyes hoping to glimpse into his heart and soul so she can jot down her discoveries in that journal. So she can see the truth in why those eyes are two different colors and why he never gets too close to anyone that loves him. He's just as scared as going in that abandoned building to find what lies within as she is, but he's even more wary of what he does ready to fled at the first sight of danger, at the first fallen wire he's ready to run but she keeps going trying to dig deeper into the mystery while he just doesn't want to be hurt by the girl with the brown eyes.

There's a garden full of flowers that no one gives a second look too. The only reason no one stops to gaze at the beauty of them or take a picture to share with friends is because the garden is full of dead flowers. No one notes the beauty of the wilted petals of them or how they're still partially standing even though they've long lost their color. No matter how much love and care these flowers get they will never be the same again because they already died and you can't change something like that. In this garden there's still some living flowers, but they're one step away from dying, and no one would care anyway. The garden is overrun with weeds taking any life still showing in the flowers destroying them even more. But these dead flowers are still beautiful through the death they have gone through. Dead flowers make me sad, they remind me of funerals, and the way we mark our favorite bible verses, our favorite pages, with a certain type, they remind me of sadness, like they no longer want to bow down to the sun, they just want to die off and be forgotten, kind of like me. You see, you weren't so much a green thumb, you made everything wilt, instead of strong and tall. You know how dead flowers are weak and brittle?¿ well, you made my body decompose while I was still much alive, it's like you liked to feel my body break. I hoped for rescue, I hope you'd take my hands out of my pockets, and tell me I wouldn't be stuck in this **** town forever, and we'd run away together. Definition of safe was sitting still, but how was I supposed to when this silence was destroying me?¿ you left me, and I became an abandoned hospital, wanting to help others from feeling the way I do, like a vacant amusement park, but how was I supposed to help them when I couldn't even help myself?¿ flowers must feel the same way after you teased them for so long, telling them they'd end up on some pretty girls doorstep, but they eventually got tired of waiting, tired of your *******, tired of your unfulfilled promises. I walk into this garden of dead flowers, maybe because I just want somewhere I can fit in because god knows I don't belong anywhere. I take some flowers with me, to remind me of myself, but mostly to remind me of you. The garden is now behind me because I can't bear to look at this death and pain anymore. I drop the flowers at your door, maybe you'll think of me when you see the way they're wilted and broken. Maybe you'll put them in a vase to try and keep them alive even though they're long past their expiration date and nothing you can do will bring them back to life. Just like the way you killed me and tried to fix your mistakes with some flowers that were soon to die like everything you touch does. I guess most things I find are already dead too so we must not be that different, you **** things and everything I know is being killed. I guess I should stop thinking about dead things and you because that does nothing but make me sad. My flowers are now in a glass cup, but with no water because no amount of care can make them survive, but I guess I couldn't leave them there because I can never leave dead things alone no matter what I do, even dead things need to be loved by someone. I hope when these dead flowers see the light, they go to heaven, and I know they're just flowers, but how come I'm doing the "polite" thing and pulling them out one by one, kissing them and laying them out to sundry?¿ if god won't accept them, well I'll just have to give him my hands, it won't be enough, but he can have them anyway. This is who I'm supposed to be, I'm supposed to be the bigger person here... I'm going to bury our memories and see what re-grows, and if rusty nails with pointy heads pop up, pointy enough to cut my index finger on and cause me to get a tetanus shot, well I know we weren't worth it, but we tried, we tried...

She was mysterious, she was difficult to understand, but there was something about her that kept him wondering, he liked the color of her hair, and the way her veins reminded him of tree roots, which brought back memories of his grandfather, he had a pine tree outside his front porch, and when it slowly started to die he did too, they both went quick and peacefully, so they say, I don't believe so, but that's a whole different story. Her skin was always goose-bumped, and her eyes were more gray than blue. She seemed calm, like a downtempo piano love song, but if you push the right buttons she'll come undone and cause a disastrous tornado out of swear words and her middle fingers. She doesn't seem to give her heart away, but he's hoping he'd be lucky enough to have her wear her heart on her sleeve, and love him whenever she felt like. She comes and goes, like a fast moving freight train, and he's hoping to catch her before she's out of sight, before it's too late. She never stays long because she enjoys being like an enigma, she doesn't want anyone to understand her because that means she's one step closer to becoming normal. But he hopes that he can put the pieces of her heart together like a puzzle, and figure out her soul like it were a riddle. He always watches her trying to figure out a way to understand her because he is as determined as the little sailboat sailing across the ocean to get back home in a terrible storm. But she is the storm that keeps blowing him further away from home and the waves that are keeping in spinning in a circle. And she reads all the time to help her add to the mystery of her life, to pick up new words, new actions, and new ideas so that they never figure her put. She comes and goes, every time coming back with a new hair color and a new wardrobe, and of course a new attitude. He hopes that he can get to know her a little bit more every time she's around but every time she leaves she changes and he can never figure her out. He can't forget her, no matter what. He tries to forget her face, but it's like his eyes are Polaroids, and they snap pictures of her face over and over again, he's losing his mind. He needs to talk to this girl, he needs to at least figure out her name. He's forever misses her, in ways he cannot tell her. He misses seeing her walk into his work, he misses her scent, he misses the little things. If only she was his to hold, if only he could take a taste of her lips.  He wondered if she'd like taking walks to the lake, and maybe skipping rocks across the water, maybe getting to know her, maybe getting an extra hour to admire her dimpled cheeks, or her freckled nose. He can see the scars in her eyes, he wonders if she can see the scars in his too?¿ he wants to know who's killing her, does she want to know who's killing him too?¿ He realizes how alike they are, but he still hasn't figured her out. He doesn't realize that he doesn't even understand himself yet. He doesn't know how she looks at him or that she tries to piece together her heart like a puzzle also. He doesn't realize that he can't understand her because she doesn't understand herself. She knows that she can't discover who she is and she won't understand who he is but she can try all she might, reading the mystery books to help find ways to solve this challenging puzzle to discover what really goes on in his and her minds and heart. He doesn't realize that he's another puzzle and he just hasn't figured out how to open the box.

After my first bicycle accident I fell so hard it was the worst pain I ever felt, at least for the time being. I had scraped knees and hands. I was scared to ride again because bicycle accidents hurt but I had to get up and keep going. And to be quite frank, thats how I feel about you. You made fall so hard that it felt like I was struck by lighting while being hit by a train and my breath left my body as I was being crushed and shocked at the same time. I fell for you so hard it was like riding my bicycle of a cliff falling onto a pile of sharp rocks. But none of this really tells how much I love you or even close to how hard I fell. You were like my first bicycle accident without training wheels, and instead of my dad, you were the one to catch me when I'd fall. I used to scratch my elbows on the gravel, and tiny rocks made a bed out of my fresh wounds, kinda like shards of glass after punching out a window, but not quite as painful. You were what I was looking at while I wasn't paying attention, it was a boy then and it's you, a man now. I guess I've always been attracted to the things that caught my eye the most, like rainbows after a sunshine downpour, I like how the color spectrum was freed, and I like how the treetops would dance. I like how I fell for you, I didn't scrape my knees on my way down this time, you caught me in your arms, and I tried to shake my nervousness off with a smile, but you giggled and told me I didn't have to worry, you were my prince and you'd always catch me, your princess, in your open arms. But eventually my bicycle grew old and I needed a new one, just as to you I grew old and you grew out of me and went looking for another girl who was falling a bit too hard. My search for a new bicycle happened during your search for a new girl and I never realized until it was too late and you were already gone. So I was lying hurt on the floor with my heart torn open just like my scraped knees while you were off to catch the next girl that fell. You see, before you left me little old me, I realized I fell in love with you, and everything around us seemed to explode into a million fiery pieces. You smelled like cigarettes and pine trees, and I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it, no matter how many times I wash my clothes, you're still lingering on them, like the taste of your kisses linger on my lips. I'm turning more and more into a young lady, so no more plaid button-up long sleeve tees with a pair of my favorite jeans that have a hole in the right knee, I'm going to wear dresses, and hope the wind teases the flow so you take a look at my lightening kisses thighs. Funny how we met, I keep giggling at the fact you actually caught me as I fell, but I guess I was stupid to think you'd actually stick around... Now I'm back to biking, and I bike to a nearby lake, I'm back to feeling like I used to, I'm back to feeling the wind play with my hair, I'm back to square one, falling in love with scenery around me, instead of silly boys like you...

I always end up comparing you to something else so I know how cliché this is, it's always very cliché. But you always end up on my mind so what else am I supposed to write about other than you?