I'm sorry you fell in love with fiction

Self-harm scars tell a story
Of who a person is
And what they're going through
But all too often
The stories they tell
Have a storybook ending
Like something from the brothers Grimm
Telling instead,
The story
Of what they went through
And who a person was...

Inhale
It can't be real, can it?
It's not meant for me.
Tired eyes dart back and forth, nothing makes sense.
The room spins, not from any over used, over priced medication,
Confused, in a love-induced haze,
I remember.
Exhale.
Has it been days? Weeks?
No, mere minutes since I saw you.
Mere moments since the conversations
We cherish so much,
Before the complications.
Uncertain, questioning,
One more time,
Inhale.
It's meant for me.
Exhale.

She's got these mossy green eyes,
The same color as the grass
All those days we used to spend laughing about nothing.
And no one asked, but I can't help but share.
She's got this curly, reddish-brown hair,
And I'll never forget the feeling
Of it tangled in my hands
All those nights we used to spend laughing about everything.
She's got these two freckles
On the right side of her back,
She doesn't know, but she has
******* constellations traced onto her skin,
Imbedded in the deepest parts of herself.
She's got this mind, this labyrinth.
I can't find my way out,
But I don't think I want to.

Late this moonlit  night
I am sitting at the sill
of the window opened
dreaming of the past.
Oh, unknown flutist,
of the day long gone
now play your flute
to the charming tune
once I heard
in such a night.