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miles and memories

I moved 484 miles-

a full seven and a half hours away-

yet here I am grieving-

thinking about our ending-

praying that I accept it someday.

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This is how..

…I fell in love.



I have never much been one to remember the minor details in life such as hellos with strangers, coffee in the park, or first kisses. It would seem though that you are the difference, being that I remember our first kiss as well as I remember my middle name.

We were surrounded by balls of fire and gas that scattered the dark sky above and around us, enveloping our world. The day had been a game of two people that had suddenly forgotten how to do the boy, girl thing, but it did not matter once the moon came out to join us.

My skin was sensitive against the prickling of the alfalfa underneath my legs, but the warmth of your body kept me rooted in place. I could feel you, the way your muscles tensed underneath the gentle graze of my fingertips. Only slightly aware of the other beings in the vicinity of our hay bale, we were hiding under a blanket, face to face with only each other and the rough, worn material that blankets with stories so often have.

I was breathing but I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t tell. All that was coming to mind was how closer we were how warm I felt. Your eyes were beautiful, how had I not noticed that before? Bright blue like a curious ocean tide but soft unlike any tide I had ever been washed away by. You were closer suddenly, your hand unsteady but resting in the spot just above my hip bone. I knew it was coming, finally. I had been waiting all day through multiple stolen glances and countless moments alone with the stranger I so suddenly felt I needed to be near. I was never more sure.

Your lips found mine. It was a a first few seconds of sloppy followed by a wild desire to be touching you, and your body met my demands easily. I felt your arms wrap completely around my waist and pull me as close as two people can get, but I didn’t stop kissing you, I couldn’t.

We lay that way for hours, interlocked until we couldn’t breathe. Our hands exploring each other as innocently as we could manage, I prayed for time to stop, for the night to pause if even only for a bit. I was hooked.

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Blue Eyed, Georgia.

I have always written about the tragedies, the heart breaks, the hurt. So forgive me for how speechless I have been lately. I believe it is called happy.

There is a boy. A sweet, southern peach of a boy with eyes so blue and full of steel they could pierce any surface in any world. Now, I know what you’re thinking, of course a boy with blue eyes, how cliché and unoriginal. But I am here to set that record straight, because you see, they aren’t only blue. Not in the least bit.

They are water, liquid and ever changing. They are the sky, so full of possibilities and seemingly free. They are mirrors in the way that they shine like that of the surface of a crystal clear lake. And they are peace. In the way that I see my own soul behind them, or so I believe. I see the soul that will someday match mine forever so much so that it is achingly familiar enough to be my own.

It is a wonder that I used to wish and wish I could wake up each morning to a sight of beauty similar to that of the sunrise I had missed because I would not be woken. Now I wake to that blue, that alarmingly beautiful blue, and I wonder how I ever thought the warm colors of the sun rising could be anything exceptional.

  – an excerpt from a story I am writing & will probably never share, but he does exist and he is exceptional. 

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Time to Choose.

We danced last night. A lot.

I remember the way your body felt crashing into mine at each twist, every turn.

There was sweat beading on my forehead and down your back.

The music was barely audible over the blood rushing beneath our skin.

And I was dizzying from every spin you threw me into. Or perhaps it was due to the way your eyes locked on mine. Either way.


You laughed when a friend told you of uncharted feelings I had for you.

“Him or me,” you said, “it’s probably time to make a decision..”

All I could do was bury my head in my hands & glance through my fingers.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to,” I offered up, though I knew it wasn’t enough.


The thing is though, I could tell you the truth.

I could tell you that when you fingered the bow on the back of my shirt and your skin touched the tiniest bit of my own, it sent shivers up my spine.

I could tell you that by simply asking me to breakfast with your parents, you made my brain melt all over the place.

I could even tell you that all the times you grabbed me to prevent other guys from talking to me, I did not know how to calm my heart to a normal beat.

I could tell you that I choose you, that you are what I want.


But then, tell me.. why would I choose someone that only wants me on nights that I come alive, like last night–versus every other night?

 

 

 

 

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Unwritten Photographs.

Photographs are worth a thousand words & I’ve got a box full of your face on paper.

Maybe someday I’ll write a book & put all those words that gathered together, to use.


I’ll start with your appearance. I’ll explain your eyes: brown, beautiful in the sun, haunting. Followed by your smile: bright, playful, and genuine each and every time I see it. I will tell them all about your face in general and how tired it constantly looks, along with your body that always seems to be dragging with the weight of the world you hold on your shoulders. Then I’ll tell them about your hair: the silky smooth brown mop I love to run my fingers through and one of my favorite things about you.

The next few chapters will consist of how I came to know you: the place we met & how it has since become my favorite spot in this world. All the late nights, early mornings, and long heart-to-hearts that made us. I will write until my fingers bleed or my pen runs out of ink, of all the firsts I experienced with you. I’ll even tell them of all the things I did with you that I would not do with anyone else, all the discoveries you brought forth within me from that moment on.

To continue I will explain to them who you ARE, and not who everyone else wants you to be: the soft, kind hearted guy that hides behind a façade of strength and ambition. I will show them the parts of you that do not dwell on the thoughts of others, but are more often covered by the parts of you that do indeed dwell. And last but not least, I will explain to them of your undying but hidden love for all things beautiful, and unique. The way you stare up into the night sky just to look at the stars, or canoe down an old creek just to see the fall colors coming through the trees, I will not let any of that go unwritten.

I believe, to finish, I will tell them of the person you made me: the one who now believes in things such as fate and unconditional love. I will type and type and type of the differences in myself now versus even a few short years ago, the way I am softer now, or maybe more wild, but in a softer way, a more lovable way. I will tell them all of the way you made me spill my truths like it was nothing and how I still do not regret that. I will explain how you spent countless nights trying to get to know me and how I, in turn, peeled back my layers as an onion would, as weird as it is, for nobody but you. I’ll even tell them that you did not have to beg me, you did not have to persuade me nor encourage me, you only had to know me and I began to know myself.

In the end, I will have told them all about you and I. I will have painted a beautiful picture in their heads and hearts. This will be the story of a girl that met a guy and a guy that met a girl and somehow everything changed.



 

Then I will write the epilogue and it will go like this:

It hurts, but only when I’m breathing & despite that, I would still walk into that exact same situation. I would still meet you, still learn about you, still come to cherish and trust you. I’d still love you. I’d still need you. I’d still be the person you transformed.

Even after your face on those small pieces of paper is all I have left.

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compromising comparisons

As far as comparisons go

I am not much one for them

but if I must be compared

or analyzed

or even remembered

I would prefer my love

be that of which Gatsby

would be greatly proud.