Whos Loneliness Is Up Manifesting Itself As A Prolonged, Deep Pain In Their Chest?

Who’s loneliness is up manifesting itself as a prolonged, deep pain in their chest?

I told you I liked you. I did. I cry these words out like a hungry, starving baby. the wails echo for years. you never forget that sound. you told me that you don’t remember me saying that, telling you. I think long and hard. It must have been a dream, I say, I must have forgotten. I always forget.

I sit in the back, stealing glances of you in each moment I can. I stare at your back for hours. Your hair, your neck, your freckles, your skin. The longing is coming off of my body like a stench, like something so unbearably gross that you have to step away. I love you. I love your hair and your neck and your freckles and your skin. I will watch you like this for hours. I will stare at your back for days. If you smell what I am smelling, don’t mention it. Please. This longing is just for me. I am sorry, friend. I want more from you than what we have.

She is an angel. I am sure of it. I was so close to death, toeing the line, drifting further and further into the darkness with each passing day. You could hardly tell the difference between me and a ghost. My body was fading along with my life. But then, I saw her face. I looked into her eyes which restored my pale skin to a fruitful, revitalized color. I felt her skin, warm and beating, against mine, and I felt alive again. Maybe more alive than I had ever been from the start. I heard her voice, filled with the rarest, truest essence of life, something that could not be found in anyone else. Her laughter—the sweetest, most wild sound that filled any room it embodied—made me whole again. made me holy again. She restored me, she made me alive. She created me.

I shake and shake and shake. You walk next to me, body next to body. Our arms lightly brush as our arms sway at our sides. I tremble and tremble and tremble. Your hand—it’s blood-filled, tender, lovely skin— is right there. So close. So, so close. I could almost reach out and grab it. I could nearly take it in mine. I could easily fill the space between our bodies. We continue walking. I don’t do it. I restrain myself. My hand longs for yours so desperately, but I make sure to tell it no. I keep it in my pocket. It won’t cause us trouble anymore.

I want to create so badly, so desperately. In my dreams, I am an artist. I weave poems of delicacy and create images of beauty and sing songs of passion. I can feel her so strongly, that person in my dreams. Sometimes, it feels as though she is my shadow…following me, trailing after me, dragging behind me like a rotting corpse. I wish I could be her. I want to create gorgeous, haunting art. I want to be something beautiful.