#hi pixie

S plopped down onto a chair at her desk to do whatever boring work was presented before her soulless eyes. She reached out to her lamp, a cloud adorned with blue crystals that you might mistake for pure tears hanging from the sides. On top of the cloud laid the light source, a small orb. She pulled on one of the drooping crystals and the lamp turned on just like that.

She decided to use one of her candles today, since she had gotten some a while back from her "brother", but never used any. Blue, fiery sparks lit from the tip of her pointer finger as she held it close to the singular wick. A small ember sprung out from the contact. She then placed the candle back down on her left side. The aroma was calming. It smelt of high royal fragrance.

S sighed, collecting the pile of papers off her desk and organizing them, shifting some around as she briefly looked at the contents. Placing the papers down, she took out what seemed to be a painting brush and two ink bottles: One was a royal blue color and the other a pitch black. The "painting brush" was actually a dip pen, something that S used quite frequently to write so eloquently with.

As time passed by, stroke after stroke, her eyes seemed to have grown smaller and smaller . . . Until they were barely able to keep themselves open. S didn't know what to do with this, panicking until a thought had repeated in her head:

"You should rest once in a while, S."

S slowly shifted her gaze to the last paper, dreadfully looking at it. She didn't want to do it, but it was only one more paper away from completion. After much internal, thorough debating and clear consideration, she eventually gave up and rested her head softly on the smooth surface of her desk. She adjusted her position, gliding her arms around until she found a comfortable position to be in. She immediately passed out.

Her facial expression softened, appearing more . . . Calmer. Peaceful. Any sort of tenseness seemed to have evaporated as if it were nothing. Her troubles gone with a poof. A small smile crept up on S's face in satisfaction. She hasn't slept like this in a long time since she usually deemed it to be meaningless, but now . . .

loving her was holding her hand and feeling her pulse beat against the skin of her wrist. her palm rough against my own, my index lightly grazing her knuckles.

loving her was feeling her warmth against my back, her chin on my shoulder. arms around my waist, securing and reassuring. leaning back into that warmth and getting a kiss on my shoulder, on that ticklish joint that only she knew existed.

loving her was 1am talking about anything and everything, sleep abandoned, bleary eyes welcomed. the silence of early morning shattered by the whirr of computer fans and hushed laughter; the dark of the morning illuminated by computer screens, glaringly bright in the room.

loving her was caffeine breaks mid-afternoon, sneaking out of class to grab coffee and steal kisses in the corridor. hiding in library among the Brontes and Shakespeare, the literary greats look on as hands slip down thighs and fingertips unclasp buttons. hushed tones and short breaths exchanged under fluorescent lights and in the background, the faint ringing of third period bell.

loving her was a firecracker on new year’s eve, getting drunk off champagne and the smell of her perfume. sparklers cast glitter over high cheekbones and the glitter on her eyelids leave trails of fairy dust on her nose that i lean in to brush away. brown curls cascade onto her shoulders and frame her face like a victorian portrait, too precious and rare to touch.

loving her was breathing: inhaling, exhaling, repeat.

losing her was suffocating: inhaling, choking, coughing, repeat.

losing her was seeing her hand clasped tight around someone else’s and seeing unfamiliar fingers trail up to her wrist to feel the beat of her pulse against thin skin. my palms are cold and unused to the loss of rough skin against my own, my index finger fidgets as it has nothing to graze.

losing her was being cold even when i’m wrapped up in a sweater, the weight of her body against mine gone and the perpetual warmth that emanated from her skin no longer shared. burying myself further into my sleeves instead of her lean body, tucking my head into the hood instead of the crook of her neck. 

losing her was 1am tears staining the pillow and drowning in regret, sleep abandoned, bloodshot eyes accustomed. the silence of early morning shattered by my gasps that go unheard, falling only onto cold walls and echoing back at me; the dark of the morning illuminated by my phone opened to our message chain, the last one reading “i’m sorry, i screwed up”.

losing her was mid-afternoon, sneaking out of class to grab coffee and sit on the roof. i never go to the library on a whim anymore - i don’t think i could handle going there and see her with someone else, hiding among the literary greats like we used to. the sunlight is glaring and blinding from the roof. the hush of the wind goes past my ears, and from down under my feet, the loud noise of rush hour traffic. 

losing her was skipping new year’s eves to get drunk in my apartment, watching re-runs of old shows to drown out the sound of the parties going on. the blinds are drawn so no firework show seeps into my peripheral. the only glitter i see this time around is from the foil once wrapped around the half-empty wine bottle, and my cheekbones are stained with mascara and eyeliner that i don’t bother - won’t bother - wiping away.

losing her was painful: an immense pain that eats me up from the inside, tearing me up from the core.

loving her was blissful: an immense lightness that filled me up from the inside, making me whole to the core.

loving her gave me strength and courage to fight my demons, pulling me far away from them. 

but losing her?

losing her took the fight out and i submit to my demons, bringing me back closer to them;