I thought I was done with Blue; I thought he would no longer bother me. Now that he's gone blank and distant, his faded blue eyes are etched at the backs of my eyelids.
I always go back to the sidewalk, everyday I see him. It looks like he's tired of carrying himself, like each step he takes much too needed force, like all he wishes to do is crawl back to onto bed. His voice keeps bouncing off the walls of my head. And a shiver crawls down my spine at the look of apathy knitted in his eyes, and the bags of fatigue make my stomach turn in angst. And the smile that reached his eyes is now faded and growing thin. His whole transformation squeezes my chest, and sometimes, I can't find myself to breathe.
I just cringe at the remembrance of my name at the tip of his tongue. Each time I remember, my love for the name minimizes, and I just want to discard the name at once. The thing is is that he doesn't say it in an odd way or with an accent. I simply hate his voice saying my name.
I notice the warm air leave with the warmth he had in his light orbs, and I notice the wind steal his grin and toss it away. I notice the small wrinkles beside his lips from smiling and the small scar he has above his left ear. For some unknown reason, his scent of wood and fresh lemons teases my nose at night. I don't know why I know these things. I placed attention on the things that matter less and the things you hardly notice. I picked up a habit of seeking for the smallest of details on people's faces - even if I don't really care for them. It's always been a habit , I don't know why.
I stare up at my ceiling through the darkness of the night. It's four o'nine in the morning, and sleep seems like a foreign concept to me at the moment. I hate that I'm losing my time of numbness.
Blue, Blue, Blue. I hate you, yet you keep my mind busy.
