#nivrokus

I will write about the following. Leave one in my ask box ☼

Dear Angel, 

I miss you. I miss you so much. It feels like forever since we last talked, it's probably a fault of mine, I've been too busy and I haven't been in the right state of mind lately and I sincerely apologise. I look forward to speaking to you more and soon; I just hope you're doing well over there, whatever it is you're doing. Now, let me stop rambling on and on, I think you're beautiful. Inside and out. I don't know your story nor am I going to force it out of you, but I think you're mysterious, in a good way though. I'd love to learn more about you as our friendship blossoms.

I can't say we've known each other for too long because we haven't, but you've been so kind to me. You've said the sweetest things and you care for me and that's... that's a lot more than I could ever ask anyone for. Thank you. I don't really know what I'm supposed to write in this letter aside from the fact that I adore you and I hope you're happy!  I do hope you come around soon though and we can hangout, maybe I could even annoy you with all my silly puns, woooooot wooooot. I miss you, call me sometimes, eonnie!

my dear veronica ,

fortune and the spur of a moment -- that's our story, bound by curiosity.  we're but strangers knowing each other's face in a sea of people, but still the actions of a day so easily tie people together.  it was meant to be because you chose it, through concern that i suppose isn't quite so meaningless but perhaps a little misguided since i don't quite know what it's like to feel sad.  

i can still almost see your handwriting on my skin -- somehow i wonder if we're tied together that way, ephemeral, only knowing each other by the colour of ink marring my skin and washing away when i can no longer see it.  we'll see in the coming days; i don't think you're that easy to shake.  you're interesting, you know -- perhaps i'll find out more about you, or maybe we'll separate in the sea.  only the future can tell.

♪ — My muse walks in on your muse singing to themselves.

"Wise men say only fools rush in," he sang softly underneath his breath, his long fingers trickling over the ivory and black keys. "But I can’t help falling in love with you." His eyes were closed; he could clearly the black stemmed notes he had spent time memorizing. They danced across his inner eye’s vision like a movie he’s set on repeat. The muscle memory in his fingers worked without thought; he knew this song like he knew the back of his hand. It was her favorite song, after all.

Perhaps most doctors spent their days off going out with friends, drinking in bars, spending it with their families but Dylan found himself wandering downtown to where the older shops lay. A small, rare smile appeared on his face when he remembered the way his late fiance would always make him stop the car whenever a music shop was in sight—the rules never changed even when he moved to a different country because music was the same in all languages.

If Dylan could remember what home felt like, this particular music store was close to it. The smell of fresh paint on wood tugged at nostalgia but he was missing something he never had. His fingers started to itch when he saw the ivory and black patterned keys, immediately taking a seat at the center grand piano. He lifted his hands and placed them on the keyboard and his eyes fell shut. Mozart. Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. Old friends who never disappointed him spilled from the tips of his fingers, filling the room with symphonies and concertos that his mother would have been proud of. She’s always wanted a musician for a son, after all.

 　   　   × 　strange.

in a way, the situation was curiouser and curiouser; he didn’t make a move, didn’t chance a blink when the woman approached with a marker because he wanted to see what would happen or maybe he just wanted to see what she had to say.  perhaps she looks familiar, maybe he’s seen her around but they’ve never exchanged a word and that’s probably what makes this all so interesting.  his arm is bare and laid before her and she uses it as her easel, her journal.  an art of words is spreading across his arm and he waits for her to finish, doesn’t seem to mind that he doesn’t know her at all.  a question marks the end of her own curiosity and he blinks down at his arm.

 　   　    　   　   ' why do you always look so sad? ' 

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