(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant or that has been loved and then lost; “the love that remains.”
1. When I first saw you I laughed. Your hair was a sentient being, wild and untamed. Your skin looked like it had never seen the light of day, and I didn’t know what to make of you.
You looked like a mad scientist and a mystery all wrapped up in too-long limbs and rebellion.
2. You didn’t utter a syllable for a whole week in the beginning.
People would try to start conversations with you, and you’d just stare at them until they began to wonder if they were speaking to a ghost.
Hook, line and sinker, was there ever really a chance for me to get away?
3. You’re eyes held back oceans foaming with all the things you’d witnessed and never shared. You were brilliant, soaring above the rest of us, and had no need to prove it to anyone.
Your thoughts were a ceaseless stream of drilling on your temples, and you would do anything to quiet the noise. And you had this smile.
The edge of your mouth would lazily inch up and you couldn’t be bothered to finish it, so you’d end up with a perpetual smirk.
4. I remember when you told me about your family.
We hadn’t exchanged more than passing “excuse me’s” in the hallway, and you told me about the night you hid behind the stairs and listened to his constant thud.thud.thud.
and the whimpers of your mother. You remembered crying because you were so small and this was so unjust and there was nothing you could do about it.
You remember tip-toeing out the front door with your mom, sister and one suitcase and moving across the country because she couldn’t take it anymore.
You promised yourself you’d be better than that. That you were better than this.
5. You told me the scar on your left shoulder blade was from falling down the stairs, it wasn’t was it? Alabaster skin makes blood very hard to conceal, sweetheart.
You began to grow tired of the stalemate of your existence: watching your mom and her bitch of a new husband drink the night away,
you’re sister sneaking out with whoever she happened to offer her body to that night, and the constant drilling in your head.
My mom warned me about addiction, she said it takes with no remorse and leaves you believing you want more. She was right; you had your pills and problems and I had you.
7. How do you know you love someone? When the thought of them hurting destroys you.
When you would sooner slit your wrists then watch them suffer, when you would lie to your parents, authorities, and yourself because it’s love goddamn it.
And love takes and breaks and cuts and heals and saves and hurts. I watched you’re choices take you away from my life, and I wasn’t mad. Because I loved you.
8. Sometimes before I go to sleep I get this gnawing feeling in my stomach when I think of you. So consistent, that I’m sure by the morning I’ll be missing a lung.
That would explain why it’s difficult to breathe. I think about the marks on your skin and the stories written in your smirks and the ocean in your eyes and it feels like you never left.
I think about you’re need for escape and the way your hair has similar personality traits and I laugh then too.