Every unturned rock within ourselves turned into a landmine for the other. we were trying to navigate through the explosions in real time. A hole within me became a bruising on you. A beating wound within you became scars on me.
At 27, I’m finally learning… it’s never been about right or wrong.
You weren’t wrong about so many, so many, intricate important things that lay all around us & in Plain sight. I long to reach out to you, discuss how insane *they all are, and then I remember where you were wrong. And I sit back, feeling how it felt, to be made to think – that it was me.
I feel like an oil painting that never dries. My colors are changing or they are bleeding from one to the next. Sometimes taking shape, sometimes looking like noise. The salt water keeps everything wet. Sometimes, I think… that says more than the words I can find to describe it.
You saw it within me. Even admired it I think. But you didn’t how to hold it… and I didn’t know how to ask you to.
Hearts bleed on to paper to echo memories. Like holograms they dance on the pages of my mind. Yet it seems a purposeful wind wists them away as ghosts again. I hope you’re doing well.
What is it my darling, that you see?