for when it rains

in your head, in your heart.

for when you think your downs won't turn back into ups:

July 12, 2015

Year One:
See: Colors everywhere, you have a friend for each of the color of the rainbow.
Hear: Laughter that resembles bubbles.
Touch: You feel your best friend through the beats of your hearts', hugging. Her hair feels soft on her back.
Taste: Sweet, pink fluff melts in your mouth, you never want the taste to leave.
Smell: Butter fresh popcorn, you don't know where it's coming from, but you follow the scent like a puppy.

Year Two:
See: Your mascara is smeared all over your vision. It looked so nice this morning, you can't believe what a waste it was.
Hear: Whispers, so many whispers. Cruel murmurs of you make their way down the halls like snakes, slithering into everyone's awaiting ears.
Touch: Nothing, you can't feel anything.
Taste: You open your mouth to say something nasty in retaliation, but the words create a sour, bitter taste in your mouth. You keep your lips sealed.
Smell: The stench of jealousy fills your lungs when you past by the group of friends, laughing. That used to be you. Why can't it be you?

Year Three:
See: You may as well have windshield wipers for your eyes, the tears flow so freely everything becomes blurry.
Hear: You hear sobs so loud it makes you cringe. It's minutes before you realize that they're your own.
Touch: Your blanket is so warm, so soft, you might never leave the sheets.
Taste: Salt, tears, sweat, salt.
Smell: Your nose is so clogged you can barely breathe.

Year Four:
See: People in groups, so tight knit you wouldn't be able to squeeze through.
Hear: More whispers, asking why you would even think of showing up at such an occasion.
Touch: All the seats are taken, so the cold grass is your assigned seat for the night.
Taste: You told yourself you'd never drink, but now it all seems pointless. The beer is sour, you pour the rest out next to your flip flops.
Smell: Too much perfume, too much sweat, too much, too much.

Year Five:
See: Someone in front of you. They're smiling, which is weird because no one ever smiles at you anymore.
Hear: She says hello, she sounds so genuine.
Touch: You shake hands, you haven't shook hands since the fourth grade when your mom still mad you, but it somehow feels appropriate.
Taste: You're so nervous that you'll say something stupid, that you suck the Chapstick off your lips. Flavored wax attacks your tastebuds.
Smell: You swear you can smell the desperation for a friend swimming off you.

Year Five:
See: Lights, smiles,
Hear: The car's horn blares so loud through the tunnel, you hear it in your head, you hear it in your heart. Everyone squeals.
Touch: His hand brushing against yours, you swear he'll hold it any second.
Taste: Your gum is cherry flavored, and you almost swallow it when you're laughing as hard as you are.
Smell: Victory, the air smells of new beginnings.