One day, when you’re old and weak and lonely, I’ll cross your mind. You’ll remember how I loved you across your dents and flaws and how you didn’t love me back. I’ll linger in your mind and regret will cave in your system like booze. As you pounce on the memories I imprinted on you, you recall each girl that loved you, you careen through time and remember them all, except me. And then, slowly, it tears upon you that many have loved you but none loved you like I did.
None embraced you as if you were the only thing vivid, vital and existing in this world except me. No one said how beautiful you are, and no one loved your scars, except I. None of them complimented about your messy hair and how perfect those curls dangled upon your head. No one bled words for you, but me. No one stayed up in the night just to think about you and how ethereal you are.
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And now as your skin wrinkles and withers away with the sands of time, you realized that you were devoid of love, depraved, kept and sheltered, from my kind of love and it shatters you as you comprehend, that the one that kept you from me was you and your fears.
Your body then degrades, falls and slowly shuts down, empty and bearing a love that had gotten away. As you take in your final breath, you thought of me and my love, bit by bit you closed your eyes and you were nothing once again.
