I was lost in our conversation of the pastimes. To read it over like you would a history book, flushed me back in time when our lives were teeming with anxiety and debris and when the near future, seemed clouded and archaic. I remember those moments of dread, all those tears, lost from the deluge of the rain. And the days that followed were only days of immature triumphs yet they felt victorious like a spider that caught a poisoned butterfly. Our words flung around a ballroom, spinning, careening; minds twisted with rage. Pushed to that one point, where we were boarder line. I felt death. I felt it. And when you can convince yourself that death is going to happen, you can feel it in between the left and right hemisphere, glowing green, as if the light was always false, yet it always glowed green. I felt those constant tears, salty, yet necessary. You could almost feel them again...can't you? These eternal moments, shrouded by the infectious daily.
I was lost in our conversations. You sent me pictures of yourself, and at first, I did not believe them. I could not. It went against everything I believed was true, and everything I believed to be false. I didn't trust this fable, this script that was put out in front of me. It took every part of my body not to burn it to ash to watch the flakes of grey flutter to the ground. Nevertheless, this was still a story of intrigue, and thespian art. I could not walk away. I felt I had a duty. I felt.......something. Hurt. Despair. Defectiveness. In that order. Sometimes, all at once. It felt like someone apathetic was gripping my most sensitive entrails in anger, forcing me to give up or die. Giving up is dying. Signing up for the anorexia diet plan.
Then the hold of tears, became the celebration. Then you, became me.
