So this is love..

The way your large hands produce charcoal lines sweeping into human forms entices me. The way you laugh at my suggestions of infinite loneliness, and ask, are we not already married? It makes me stare into clouds for far too long while others talk to me about things that really do not matter. The same way I would say yes if you asked me in person. The same way I'm scared to be with you because I'm not good enough, but you say "I found you attractive years ago." and ask why, in truths name, will I not move into that city with you? I wonder if you really do, or you just feel bad because I let you lean on me. I tell you every few months I tried forgetting you. But it gets worse, I guess I shouldn't try anymore, as my mind will never let you go. You appear in my dreams every night, and I wake up disappointed because I can not see your face, and hear your voice, and see that dark messy hair bunched between your long fingers in deep thought.

You get mad when I forget things, but I could never, in a thousand lifetimes, forget you, my dear.

It Still Feels Like Yesterday

We wouldn't pour these words from our fingers if we did not expect, one day, perhaps after our bodies have left the Earth, that someone, somewhere, will read all these sentences. But I still write letters to no one, and I still say things to the pages of my sketchbooks that I wish so badly I could speak to you, my dear, out loud. I put them in brilliant colours, in between charcoal butterfly wings, and disproportionate skeletons. I drown out these sounds of reality with soft guitar strumming and deep voices, climaxing into heartfelt and shrill cries. Songs about tree lines, and endless horizons on the sea. I once read somewhere that we enjoy music as a species, and dance when we are happy, but understand the lyrics when we are sad. But when ever I start paying attention to song lyrics, I tend to become slightly sad in an existentially nostalgic sense no matter what my mood. 

I once asked you why it is so hard to speak the truth, and you replied with a pause, and then an offering of an explanation along the lines of us not wanting to hurt our loved ones. But that's one of dying people's biggest regrets, putting others, if not all of their loved ones, before themselves. All because of love.

I want to talk to you so bad. But it's not the same anymore. You're not the same anymore, and neither am I. You always say I've changed, but I don't understand why that would upset you. Is a relationship between two humans nothing but the changing of seasons and selves, whilst growing in life with another being? 

Please.

"Hey, how you doing" he repeated to himself.

"Please don't judge me, I already feel fucking retarded." he sighed heavily whilst he looked at time then turned away asking, "How you doing?"