It was so funny the way you said "three weeks?!" over the phone and I could see the question mark and exclamation point forming before my eyes at the intensity of your voice.
Yeah. Three Weeks. Interesting, isn't it? Three Weeks. We have 12:22, too. Gosh, we're messed up.
They said that you can be in a relationship for two years and feel nothing, and be in a relationship for two months and feel everything. And with you? Twelve minutes, twenty seconds give or take, every night. That's all it took. That's all it took for me to feel EVERYTHING.
(Maybe I'm still enchanted. Maybe it'll wear off eventually. I'm still waiting for that to happen).
Blue is your favorite color. Remember when you told me we'd get fat together? I dreaded that for only a millisecond after you uttered it because I realized it was true. Dread turned to delight because I realized too that I would be okay with getting fat if it meant getting fat with you.
Man, I don't want to say I love you. I was so close though. I was THIIIS close to telling you those words. It's a good thing we nipped that in the bud before anything else happened. Good thing we stopped. Good thing...
We're going to be friends forever, right?
I remember a time, standing in my best friend's driveway late at night. I took a drag off your cigarette but you told me I could only have one because they weren't good for me. That was months ago. Now you tell me that you're no good for me, that being with you will be another mistake to regret in the morning. But I keep waking up wishing I'd stayed up later to love you longer. And I know that you're good for me even if you can't see it yet. I love you so much that I'll compromise and say that we're just friends even though I know that the universe has much bigger plans. And I'm not one for that type of compromise. So I'll call it blind trust in us, that somehow, someway, someday we'll be together like I knew we should be that night in his driveway.
We are poets.
We find ourselves at 3am with overthinking minds
where writing becomes our solace.
We fall in love with language because we are the writers of words long forgotten.
We spend hours trying to describe poetically
the simplest things you could imagine
or we spend a few minutes trying to explain the meaning of life.
We have the darkest and most twisted minds,
filled with beauty and madness
We write so much that not writing makes us anxious
We are the dreamers in an awake world
the sufferers in a peaceful time.
We are poets,
and our fingers become the pen in which we write
as we pour out our souls onto the page of our hearts
We write until our words become us
and we write until moving a pen across paper
becomes our breathing.
She was looking professional, but barely so—like she'd forgotten about her presentation until just moments ago, and slapped on her socially acceptable attire. She spoke at the prospect with resolve and confidence and a little color flip book, each page moving the prospect further and further down her sales funnel, closer to the core. Closer to the close. Closer to payment for her commerce product. She pointed a finger and waved it to emphasize a point. The prospect nodded here-and-there. He had no need for her purchasable thing, but he wanted to encourage her, so he nodded, and acted interested.