it's your birthday! which, congrats, i hope you're eating cake. i can't give you a gift, i can't agonize over what you want/need, but i can write you something. maybe it's less of a birthday gift and more of a thing for me to reconcile my feelings, but it's still for and about you.
i changed the dedication on perfect harmony when you deleted. i don't know if you noticed. i don't know if you ever actually liked it. i do know that i wrote an entire story about you because you deserve everything. a story with a girl named max falling in love with louis tomlinson is not much compared to what i want to give you.
i cannot tell the stars what to do, but i suggest to them: fall across the sky when she's looking, and give her whatever she wishes for.
i've archived every email message wattpad sent to me about you. now, i feel like it's nothing more than a box with notes in them. nothing in that box pertains to me. nothing in that box is going to tell me where you went, but i don't want to know.
i don't want to know where you are. but this is what i hope: that you are safe, that you are happy, that you are loved, that you are alive.
(you were my best friend, and i wish i got a goodbye.)
i never took you seriously when you said that you'd leave after nicotine was over. i got a three month grace period, and i thank you for that. i hope that you're out there, laughing. i hope you're smiling, that you get wrinkles by the corner of your eyes, that laugh lines will emerge. i hope moving on made you happy. much love. x.
YOU ARE READING
alimento mori
Aléatoiren. the insomnia-borne jolt of awareness that you will die. write it down before it's gone and let everyone see it because you exist, you exist, that sylvia plath quote running through your head, tattoo it on your veins, remind yourself you are here...
