Whenever I listen, I remember the trips to Newport- the bridges and roads that became more familiar each time. Your hair was red and your eyes were blue and your hands were awkward and you never finished your thoughts and your sheets were always dirty. We'd lay in bed for hours, not saying anything, and sometimes you'd turn to me and smile. There was something incredibly beautiful about the disaster our agony created. I'd bring you to work in the morning so you wouldn't have to take the bus and I'd play this song and the sun was just waking up and the air was bloated with autumn. I didn't realize it then, but you never tried to drown the music with your own voice.
I loved you as much as a girl who didn't love herself could.
I often wonder if you're OK, and I hope that you are.
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1 comment:
When you write, it's not perfect, but it's beautiful.
"I loved you as much as a girl who didn't love herself could." is, perhaps, the saddest things I've read in quite a while - and one of the loveliest.
I really do hope you find love, miss. And happiness. You deserve it.
- Some Fool
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