and she says that she misses the way lips like to curve into a smile– her favorite shape. a reason to be happy because someone gives her just the right amount of attention. intoxicating, she says. you can feel a smile through the phone– when someone likes you back, there are no questions– just more answers. like did she smile today? check. did she get a text from him? check. did he paint her soul today? check. did he make her feel safe? check. and when she says i missed you like a hand misses holding a pencil, she doesn’t know that he understands the need for affection– so he draws her into tomorrow. why buy flowers? a drawing of a flower never wilts. she misses him like a book misses the feeling of the reader’s hands flipping through each page in search for an ending– she doesn’t know that he enjoys the feeling of brand new books and the way they smell. so when he opens a poetry book, he reads it to her. she’ll never have to skip a chapter ever again. she misses him like a silly poet that misses the recent supermoon– there’s always a chance to see it again. so he talks to her every night. she doesn’t have to be afraid of nightmares– his mind is built on dreams. she’s just a dreamcatcher– and he’s just caught. she misses him like the moon eating ice cream to get over the sun– 24 hours in a day, it’s just not enough. so i’ll add more hours into a day, i’ll make the impossible something real. she says that she’s grey. deprived. colorless– he sees none of it. he only sees the burgundy. he only sees art where she sees chaos. he only sees light when she sees different shades of a bruised nightfall. the twilight star– and still she says– i miss you. everyday. she misses something that’s not quite perfect. i would say missing someone that much is simply crazy. but that’s the thing… isn’t it? you do crazy shit when the chemicals in your brain implode into a palette of poetry. that’s the thing. she knows that he misses her too. each i miss you… counts.
| Dec 6 |
