Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Eight Minutes

I missed the way you saw me.
My smile made of gossamer and dreams.
My hair made of flowers and silk.
My eyes made of every precious gem you can name.
My skin made of the rarest of marble.

I would have loved to hear you whisper those beautiful nothings as we laid in bed,
staring at our star-covered ceiling.
You know that, right?

But alas,
I missed the way you loved me.
With your whole heart,
body,
and mind.
With every cell in your body,
every breath your lungs
inhaled,
exhaled,
as you watched me eat
from across the lunch table.
The way you saw only my beauty,
and erased my flaws
from the me you saw
with your self-deprecating eyes.

Your eyes are beautiful, though.

The way you sacrifice your happiness
so that others could live
just a little bit longer.

Your laugh could leave a smile on my face
even after the sun dies
and we are living in those
eight minutes of bliss,
I would still be smiling,
because of you.

My dear,
I love you,
I have always loved you.
But it seems as though,
in these last eight minutes,
I am only now realizing
how much
you loved me.

I'm sorry.

But at least we'll all be dead soon anyways.
At least now you know
I'm still smiling because of that
joke you told five years ago.
But you don't care,
don't you?

You've moved on,
haven't you?

That's okay.

I'll live our last few minutes
with a smile on my face,
because of you.

Always because of you.

Don't you remember?

Even after the sun dies.