When I first met you, I didn't think much.
We didn't talk much.
Just friends of friends.

Nothing special.

One year later, I met you again.
Just a simple hello.
A simple good bye.

Nothing special.

Another year goes by.
We meet for the third time.
This past summer was different however
Because we did not know what would transgress in the months to come.

Nothing special.

At the beginning of that summer, he had crushed me.
Broken up with me over the phone.
A year and a half of love. Gone.
My best friend. Gone. Forgotten.

Nothing special.

At the end of that summer, she crushed you.
Broken up with through a text.
Three years of love. Gone.
You went to her house in a rage.

Nothing special.

You begged her to take you back.
You cried.
Not that you told anyone else that.
You only told me.
And if I told anyone you would deny it.

Nothing special.

A month goes by,
You act like you don't care.
You hide behind your blind rage.
You told her to never talk to you again.
She didn't. You thought you had moved on.

Nothing special.

I thought I had moved on too.
But at a party, I drunkenly slapped your best friend.
He promised he would make me his,
But like the rest he let me go.
I wasn't worth the trouble.
The usual.

Nothing special.

But then you swooped in with your big arms and big heart.
You told me to forget about it to not stress.
Stress free livin'.
All good in the hood.
That's what we drunkenly told one another.

Nothing special.

Then we went up to your room.
Don’t think *****.
We talked until the sun rose in the sky.
About anything and everything.
Our first real talk and we couldn't shut up.
It was simple, easy.
Magical.

Something special.

As the hangover kicked in,
You kissed my forehead.
You called me beautiful.
Called me wonderful.

Something special.

As I drove away from you and back to reality,
I didn't want it to be over.
I texted you.
You replied.
We began our journey.

Something special.

Staying up until the sun came up.
Sometimes 3am. Sometimes 6.
We talked and texted about everything.
20 questions was our game.
But 20 turned into infinity.
And infinity was nice.

Something special.

You visited me.
I visited you.
An hour away was nothing.
It only made the time with you more special.
You told me kissing me felt like you were in another place.

Something special.

But infinity had to end eventually.
You saw her again.
One smile, one laugh, one I miss you.
Like a puppy you went running at her first call.
You broke up with me over the phone.

Nothing special.

You said you were sorry.
Called yourself an *******, a ****, every name in the book.
You said you liked me but you liked her more.
You were in love with her.
You said you did it wrong but it was the right thing to do.

Nothing special.

Now I sit back and think.
Did it mean anything?
The kisses, the cuddles, the talking 'til dawn.
Did you ever care in the first place?
Do you even think about it?

Nothing special.

Unlikely.
You have her.
She has you.
At least I assume.

Nothing special.

But I have me, myself, and I.
And unlike you I know what I want.
I want someone who wants me.
Who doesn't second guess his feelings for me.

Something special.

I need a hug,
but not a quick,
lazy hug
during which the touch feels like less of a comforting gesture,
but more of an awkward happening
with limp arms hanging like gigantic weights,
pulling you into the floor.
Not one where you aren't ever really sure if you should hang on
for just a moment more,
or if you should let go,
and release into an uncomfortable silence
that lasts until someone coughs hesitantly.
The sound reverberating through the atomosphere,
leaving a heavy draft of atypical embarrassment at the contact,
waiting for someone else to bring up some random topic of discussion
to break the icy and heavy silence.



No.



I need a real hug.
The kind where someone who loves you see your pain
even though you might not say anything.
Reading the waters behind your smiling eyes,
seeing the hidden hurt behind your irises,
they grab you,
perhaps by your slightly shacking shoulders,
and pull you into their warm encasement.
Holding you tightly
and safely
in their care.
And the two of you just hang onto this affectionate moment
of profound concern among brethren of a species
The kind where time seems to stop
in admiration of this subtle outpouring of unified allegiance
before which the universe bows.
I need the kind of hug that demonstrates a fierce loyalty.
Devotion that knows
should the object of such intense friendship fall into the pit,
from whence none return unscathed in some way,
they will throw down a rope
a foothold
a salvation,
and they will pull that person from the depths of the darkness
maybe even at the risk of falling in themselves.



Yes.



That is the kind of esoteric gesture
that can be so impactful on those in pain,
regardless of whether that pain be great or small.
And should you find that you receive love like that,
treasure it.
And should you find that you give love like that,
never forget how special and rare someone like you is.

Were my life to be a diary
Each sentence a moment, each page a time with a distinct feeling and flavor
Chapters running into chapters, with a rising and falling action that will cycle through
Until I am dead.

no

There are joys, sadnesses, moments I would care to never read again.
Some pages are repeated over. and over. and over.
The same feelings and mistakes running through me like some fated theme.
A coursing river of celestial meaning flowing along with the lines of my life
Like somewhere out there is a universe that wants my existence to make sense.

Though, one page is black, empty beyond a lack of light.
It exists as a hypothetical possibility, something that I can never see
But must accept as fact.

no

I must also accept the ebony to be my own fault,
I held the bucket of paint and poured it down my throat.
Drinking the emptiness that would trickle through my stomach
Diffuse into my blood and cloak my brain as I wrote the memories of that night.

I drank the midnight poison by my own hand...
Usually the words look better a little faded and scribbled anyways
One more thoughtless, silly, scrambled night
couldn't hurt,
right?

no

But, I drank too much midnight,
The pen dropped from my hand
Then a flurry of movement that I
could not,
would not,
had. not. planned.

He took my pen and scribbled his notes all over my beautiful diary
Threw himself on a page I did not give to him.
He tagged it and brutalized it as the paint poured into my brain
Covering the tracks milliseconds after he made them.

no

I do not know what is written underneath that paint.
Neither does he.
Does this mean that boy is no more to blame
than me?
I did not know he wrote in me that night, until others mentioned
they had seen scrawls bled into the creamy pages,
And hinted that perhaps there were some words written below.

So understand that when I look at that page
and brew with hurt and rage
That the fact he does not remember what he scrawled
Doesn't change the times I've bawled, the paper
Trying to rip it away from the spine of my diary
And forget the message left inside me,
On a night when all I can remember saying is no.