Last winter, you and I were loafing around a cinema. We were warily glaring at cops and I remember you said something nice. We drank awful milky coffee and bumped into people we knew.
Last winter I met you for the first time. Liked you instantly. You reminded me of someone I adored, one of mine, who does not belong anymore, someone who decided not to belong. Decided I was too inconsistent to be her friend.
You and your schizophrenic conversations. Your tears, your drama. Your constant need to discard, to be merciless. I liked being with you however. I liked how lazy moments spun new thoughts, I liked eating out of boxes, I liked falling asleep suddenly. I liked our strange friendship, till you decided to push too hard.
And you, something about you I loved to love. I liked our conversations, I liked your room floor. But you moved away with time and a precious piece of me.
I miss you, our pointlessness, our intense friendship, the blankets, the laughter. I'm grateful you're still around.
You, who I kissed one drunken night, without a thought, a care, and then cried guilty and heartsick. You don't exist.
Your grin disarms me even now. I dream of it sometimes, and wake up, alarmed. Then, as familiar noises fill my ears, I lie back with a sigh.
I miss you too, my brother, my own. And you little funny clown, with a golden heart.
You, young boy, you are wonderful, with your curly mop and songs and dreams, so similar to ours, old like the scattered us, stretched over these years.
You are special, you were perhaps meant to be mine. You who walked in like a storm on a still day - and I exploded. I need you, I want to be around you, to look at you, touch your nose, feel your gentle breathing against my skin, hold you as you thrash around in your sleep. I need to be your story, the most significant one.
Last winter I met you for the first time. Liked you instantly. You reminded me of someone I adored, one of mine, who does not belong anymore, someone who decided not to belong. Decided I was too inconsistent to be her friend.
You and your schizophrenic conversations. Your tears, your drama. Your constant need to discard, to be merciless. I liked being with you however. I liked how lazy moments spun new thoughts, I liked eating out of boxes, I liked falling asleep suddenly. I liked our strange friendship, till you decided to push too hard.
And you, something about you I loved to love. I liked our conversations, I liked your room floor. But you moved away with time and a precious piece of me.
I miss you, our pointlessness, our intense friendship, the blankets, the laughter. I'm grateful you're still around.
You, who I kissed one drunken night, without a thought, a care, and then cried guilty and heartsick. You don't exist.
Your grin disarms me even now. I dream of it sometimes, and wake up, alarmed. Then, as familiar noises fill my ears, I lie back with a sigh.
I miss you too, my brother, my own. And you little funny clown, with a golden heart.
You, young boy, you are wonderful, with your curly mop and songs and dreams, so similar to ours, old like the scattered us, stretched over these years.
You are special, you were perhaps meant to be mine. You who walked in like a storm on a still day - and I exploded. I need you, I want to be around you, to look at you, touch your nose, feel your gentle breathing against my skin, hold you as you thrash around in your sleep. I need to be your story, the most significant one.
1 comment:
You write beautifully. Loved the last line especially.
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