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Jul 2015
I used to wonder about you
The girl with the pretty glimmer in her eyes:
The girl with the broken shards of honey speckled glass
Lost in the deep brown chestnut of your iris
I used to wonder how your eyes alone could be so mesmerizing
Yet I’ve never actually seen them in person.

But before I even questioned the beauty of your eyes,
You we’re just words to me,
Another faceless blog to follow,
Another desperate artist bleeding your insides against a keyboard,
I couldn’t stop myself from questioning the inner workings of your mind,
The way your words seemed to echo throughout not just my head, but my whole body.
I craved to know the artist behind the words that drenched my soul in sadness
The artist who wrote not with ink, but with blood,
Your past memories made your words sing like a requiem for the opening of a funeral,
And I was in a trance,
I stalked, then I stalked some more.
(Not in the creepy way I might add)
But in a way where my soul craved to know pieces of you
As beautiful as you are, I had no idea what you looked like.
I stalked your words more than I poured over my own work.
I think I saw the hunger in your words, maybe a sense of loss and a sense of positivity,
You we’re different. The way you wrote wasn’t like any other I had met.
I think I fell in love with your writing at some point,
Then I saw you, and I had wondered why such a beautiful woman would feel such pain
But I couldn’t help but be selfish with your words; I read them and re-read them
Hanging onto each one as if it was a delicate kiss from something beyond this world
You we’re so positive but behind the positivity I could feel a shadow of sadness
Maybe that’s why you’ve always been so beautiful to me;
Because I saw you for your words before I saw you for your looks
Even now to this day, I crave you.
I crave your words like nothing I have experienced
And sometimes, when I feel lost I look for you; I look for your words
Because you’ve always somehow managed to become part of me
Even if you as a person never became part of my life
Your words, your story, and your emotions, they felt like home
Anonymous
Written by
Anonymous  Portland, OR
(Portland, OR)   
418
     Weeping willow, wes parham and ---
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