Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.
I’m still unsure how you can make me feel so alive, so full of poppy seed and sunlight and new book smell, when all I’ve ever had my mind set on is dying. Maybe this is the calm before the storm. Maybe you are the storm.
I have loved you so much I unconsciously changed it it’s not just a word anymore it’s not just a feeling it breathes and you are the oxygen it consumes and I am almost dead it writes you’re both paper and ink it paints I have eyelids as canvas
And I think missing you hurts the most when something funny happens. Because in that one moment I find myself laughing, and within the next second I want to tell or text you what happened. And then it hits me again, every single time, that you aren’t there anymore. That I lost the one thing that mattered to me.