to her, with love.

friendship is such a mild term now. it connotes flowers and matching bracelets and dancing in heavy summer downpours. this could be called the amended version of that, the version that no one else maybe including us could ever hope to comprehend.

i dread the times when you are gone. now, i do not mean the times when you are not physically with me. even when you are not present, i see you in a hand gesture, or a favorite ice cream flavor, or the girl down the street that reacts to tickles similarly to you. i see you in what the stars could be, gazed upon from a place where nothing stains the atmosphere except thousands of little twinkling lights. united we stand, divided we fall. nothing has been more true.

no, i mean the times when you are not present and accounted for. i mean the times that nothing around me gives the slightest hint that you exist. i mean the times when everythingeverythingeverything is unfamiliar and uncomfortable and untried and unbeloved. those times when i sit by myself in the far corner of my room and cry for the times that i have taken you for granted.

it’s so incredibly easy to watch a ‘now’ become ‘then’.

and i do not mind telling you that that scares me to death. because i cannot imagine life without you anymore and what are we without life? that thing that you call sad, that thing that i call beautiful. that thing that the majority of the world tries to prevent. it is inevitable, but there are so many better ways of going about things than stripping you from me. as i need my brain to function, so do i need you.

i hope to dear heaven you know that.


seasons of unease

Everything is cold, so cold. Only the moon peeks out from behind the silver fog. You are cozy in your little room, curled up on a maroon-coloured window seat; far from any sort of harm, but not all is well. Not all is well. You have no idea what you are thinking, though – nothing is wrong?
A little voice that’s probably inside your head whispers /Nothing obvious, at least/.
You inhale deeply, because it feels like if you don’t you will choke on nothing at all. Maybe doing so will help clear your head? Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.

Everything is budding, and everything is turning green. It does not help your mother’s allergies, but she is an adult, she can handle it, or so you like to reassure yourself. She is an adult, much like you will be soon – someone magically equipped to deal with all of their problems. Someone who either forgets how to imagine or never really grows up. You are not sure if you are ready, but who is?
Something is still not right, and now it is making you queasy. /Nothing obvious is wrong/.
So why does it feel like there is?

Everything is in full bloom, except for flowers that need the cold to survive. You have not been invited to any celebrations so far, but the vacation is still young. After this season it is off to school-for-grown-ups, but do you even qualify? This is more than a daunting prospect, it is terrifying.
You are getting more of a handle on the wrongness that has nagged you. It has something to do with unobvious feelings.
But what does that mean?

Everything is falling, including you. Falling for the friend that you have really loved for ages. It’s a peculiar feeling, falling; like nothing has ever been more hopeless, and nothing has ever been so delightful. It’s like walking on a clear platform, suspended in time for the entire world to see.
It is almost time for cozy, maroon-coloured window seats, and maybe you will not sit alone this season. The queasiness has almost dissipated and you are at peace, for the first time this year.
Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong.

[so I’m stupidly happy with this because it is 4 sections/seasons, 12 paragraphs/months, and as far as I can count, 365 words. I’m gonna hit publish before I second-guess myself too much.]

the Dreamer

hey, beautiful.
yeah, you in the plaid flannel shirt two sizes too big, with the unintentionally torn jeans hanging comfortably around your hips. you with the hair hanging long over your shoulders, not a trace of chemical in the air. you, whose greatest delight would be making other people laugh, if you were ever sure of yourself. whose least favorite sensation is knowing you should apologize but not being sure you want to. whose favorite color is black, but who still has the urge to play with dolls every now and then. confident air, or maybe sometimes just kind of shy, depending on your mood.
you whose bravado is just as fake as the people you are surrounded with, and you who hate making small talk but could go on for hours about how the world needs more hiddleston-like boys – no, men – or how time isn’t a line, facebook, it’s complicated and tangled, rather like earphones that were fresh out of your pocket. everyone says you’re quiet but you don’t quite believe them simply because it’s too loud inside your head to ever consider the possibility that they are right, and besides, they get so many other things wrong about you. you’re not timid, you’re not quiet, at least not when you’re locked inside your own head. that happens much too often for their liking, but you don’t really care anyway.
you who want to overcome all the labels, and be who you want. you’ve got what it takes but it’ll take all you’ve got.
nothing new.
you, whose greatest possible achievement would be being recognized for what and who you are.