Dedicated to the ones who mock us saying that they haven’t lost anything.
We flaunt flypaper photos, hoping for horsefly quick fixes, but I’m no longer the person in my pictures, but a spider. Now, my red eyes burn– boiling tears whose salt cannot sustain me. It’s also evident that I’m gracelessly aging as time flies faster; I’m not having fun.
I’m not having fun.
He– external introspection: embodiment of possibilities just out of reach. He– the very visage of perfection, anonymous, at least to me. And here but an hour ago we were we.
Garrett let him in through the front door. “I’m here to see Victor.” “Sure, let me take you to his room.” I’ll get questions tomorrow for which I’ll have no answers or lies, so I’ll tell the truth: I poured my heart into seven heavenly minutes, only to find it unscathed. Love is blind lust until it suffers.
He leaves and I wait for confirmation that we’ll never speak again. And it comes. And I think: He might have been a pre-med student. His favorite color might have been yellow. He might have been able to sing. He might have been living poetry. He might have loved Jesus. His faith in Jesus might have been unshakable. His name might have been Bradley. His best friend might have been his mother.