We haven’t talked for such a long time, I can’t even recall the exact sound of your voice. I don’t remember your laugh - I remember the crinkles by your eyes and that dimple on your cheek and how it deepens - but I don’t know what it feels like to hear it, how it once made my heart swell in my chest, not anymore. And yet I’m sure that if I heard a million people laugh, yours would still stand out to me and maybe I’d turn around to look for the source and wonder how something so simple is enough to make my blood sing. We miss the memories, not the person, is what my father used to say, but how can he explain why I drop everything when I hear that one song we used to dance to and why that blue sweater you borrowed me still sits at the bottom of my closet when I could have thrown it away? How does missing someone make any sense when that person is still around, is somehow still a part of your life? How am I supposed to get over that? How does anyone?
To the person who may one day find me beautiful/ love me/ give me any type of attention (if you exist):
Please, do not compare me to a piece of art. Yes, the sentiment is nice and appreciated, but please refrain from doing so. You see, art is meant for museums. Art is not meant to be touched, only admired from a far; art can only be viewed during work hours. Art spends every night alone.
If you must compare me to something, please consider comparing me to your favorite blanket. The one you’ve had all your life, tattered from love. The one that makes you feel safe, and warm, and like nothing can hurt you.
Compare me to your favorite movie. The one that you’ve watched more times than you can count; the one that you know all the lines to, but you will continue to watch it over, and over again, because the characters feel like family, and watching it feels like coming home.
Compare me to your childhood teddy bear; the one you’ve slept with every night. The one that fights off the monsters. Compare me to something that you love, something you could never let go of.
If you let me, I will be all those things. I will make it my mission to keep you safe, and warm, and never let anything hurt you. To be your family, to be your home. To fight off all the monsters. Even the ones inside you.
Please, do not compare me to art. Art is beautiful, and perfect, and I am neither of those things.
He never really spoke about her, or them. Whenever her name popped up in a conversation, a look would cross his face and he held back whatever he wanted to say. It wasn’t that he was just heart broken, he missed the memories he’d made with that girl. And I couldn’t blame him. I’d loved him longer than I could ever remember, but.. he fell for someone else, and she replaced the gap I left. I wasn’t angry about this, I just regretted ever letting him go. And I hoped she did too.