you are the hero, the main character, the one trying to hold the story together in your shaking hands.

because you are the story yourself. you are my story. your twisted plot lines intrigue me.

you are my protagonist, yet you are also the antagonist. you are a blessing and a curse dropped into my lap; your intensity terrifies me at times.

i know that you will overcome your enemies in the end, even if that enemy is yourself. because it’s about time we had a happy ending.

You were like the abnormally warm days of winter that make me wish for spring before its time. Self-assuredly you spoke with a confidence that was beyond your years, yet without an air of pretension. Your words painted dreams of a future just beyond your grasp, while I was still attempting to sketch the bare outlines of mine. You knew what you wanted from life, and you pursued it. For a while I thought that was me, but I was wrong. The way you looked at me seemed completely different. It was as if I was the first sunset or flower or snowflake you had ever seen. I felt intimately precious, and that terrified me. I tried to hide my feelings with a heavy coating of indifference. But you saw right through my façade; you always did. Because you were too old for me, too experienced, too wise. And I was too much for you. Though you were never mine, you will remain my sonnet of mistakes.

Sometimes I wonder if I am a raindrop
Lightly dancing on your windshield.
The forecast didn't call for rain
Yet here I am, and so you yield.

Sometimes I wonder if my fall to the ground
Keeps you awake at night.
I know that my bolts of lightning
Are said to be far too bright.

Sometimes I wonder if I can take it any longer;
My atmospheric pressure is about to burst.
No one can explain it to me, however.
The ground I walk on must be cursed.

Sometimes I wonder if you can feel the plates
Moving deep within my bones.
Do you ever mistake thunder
For my body's angry creaks and groans?

Sometimes I wonder if you think of me at all;
The maelstrom you couldn't tame.
Perhaps the wiper on your car
Can rid you of my shame.

one. he will see right past the clever disguises and camouflage that you use to deter the world from your weary self. he will see directly into your character; into your heart and your soul. he will like what he sees, and he will want more. he will write about it.

two. after writing about your soul until it has exhausted his own, he will surface for air. there he will notice your body. he will be mesmerized by its curves and valleys. he will want to bathe in your very presence, as if the radiance of your body will make him think the way you think. he will write about it.

three. he will dream up a future for the two of you, a hopelessly impossible love story with just the right amount of heartbreak. he will be dissatisfied when life doesn't follow his carefully scripted plot. he will realize he has crafted you into the perfect antihero. he will write about it.

four. he will attempt to find a way to immortalize you. he will want the idea of you to live on like a musty echo rocking the surface of our dry and cavernous earth. he won't accept the fact that his darling was never made for eternity. he will write about it.

five. he will wonder if his words have corrupted you. the portrait he has made barely resembles you at this point. he will not know what to say to you anymore, because unlike the words on the page, you left. he will write about it.

six. he will ponder life without you. even things like grocery shopping and brushing teeth will be different without you by his side. he will struggle, but his heart will heal. he will write about it.