Indifference. The word is whispered through every pore on my face, melting my over analyzing thoughts, and stalling my broken heart. Indifference frees me, but it is not my favorite sound. Freedom. Tattooed on my fingertips, everything I touch and do is freed as well. But freedom doesn’t mean that I am free, and it is not my favorite sound. Happiness. Such a distant sunrise, as I have been living my life in twilight for months now. I know the light is coming, I know I will see soon, but it is not my favorite sound. My face contorts, holding your name underneath my tongue. Hidden, waiting, and everlasting, it remains in case you ask me to speak. For if I do, the secret will be out. It is your name beaneath my tongue, your name that makes my favorite sound.
I know who I am, and I know that it is enough. In this current state, I’ve gathered the paper airplanes that are my fleeting feelings and contained the thrumming that is my deep seeded desire. I have been in love before, in a way that force strips flesh from bone and shakes away fear and excess. I have been in love in the way that everything lost can return to me like a miracle. I have been in love in the way that reads like a book; each word jumbled and must slowly be decoded. But as that love ends, the bones are left shattered, the possessions turn to ash, and the book closes though the story remains unfinished. I have loved like that, and desired things that destroy me in the end. And I know that time would heal all wounds. But what exactly do I do on days when it feels like the hands on my clock have arthritis? Honestly, there is nothing rational about love. Love stutters when it gets nervous, love trips over its own shoelaces. Love is clumsy, and my heart doesn’t wear a helmet. I actually have this envelope, I carry it with me all the time. It’s full of all the butterflies I felt the first time he relaxed the velcro on his lips and smiled in my direction. Most of them are still alive. I can still feel their wings through the paper. I’ll never open it, either, with fear of losing such a powerful memory. And I know I hate him, and wanna scream every time he looks in my direction, but my thoughts for him are like flowers. And if I compiled every moment his presence encompassed my conscience, I could walk in my garden forever.