He's got strong, sure hands. Steady with wide palms. My hands always shake, never settle. Twitch and tap and vibrate with an energy I've always struggled to calm. All of me is kind of like that.

I didn't love him, yet. But I can admire art when I see it.

I loved him— in this terrible, grasping way. Like vines wrapping around and around until I couldn't breathe, and the entirety of the wold was minuscule compared to the life inside of him. Because he was universes within universes; stars in his eyes, the sun in his hair, rich and golden and deserving of more than every ounce of love I could possibly conjure.

Trust no one.
Not even boys with cute smiles.
Not even boys who are so close to being
magic it hurts to look at them.

Every time he smiled it was though the ground was opening beneath my feet, ready to swallow me whole— a never ending fall, and I was certain I would not reach the bottom, that I'd keep falling, stomach in my throat, heart pounding, breath quickening.

I miss my friend. Before the tension built and the tightness in my heart began to bring tears to my eyes.

I miss my friend. He always answered after the first ring. He’d always come right away. Whenever I needed him. Whenever I was helpless and lost. He was there. I never waited more than a minute.

I miss my friend. When the love was simple, and the laughter came in plenty. Quick wit and raucous happiness.

I miss my friend. In quiet simplicity. Music soft and the air reeking of paint, and all we discussed, all we saw, were colors, colors, colors.

There is something surreal about being alone in the car with a boy you love. Surrounded in the dark of night with the streetlights casting patterns across his skin. He’s smiling so wide you itch to reach over and touch, feel that sublime happiness for yourself. He puts on his favorite song and asks you to listen.

No, shh.
Turns the volume up.

Listen.

The car shakes with the beat, syncing with the pounding of your heart.

And when you put that song on later, laying in bed, your eyes squeezed shut, all you’ll see is the rush of night, the curve of his cheek, the soft spot behind his ear you yearn to press your lips to, his voice, so eager, urging, wanting you to know the song the way he does, and God, you want to. His hands curled around the wheel, reliable, safe, and you think about running your fingers over each knuckle, every callous, mouth open against his palm.

And that song, it will stay in the back of your mind. It’ll come with his smile and the revving of a car engine and lamp light that dances in puddles.