Around like a broken record, reality falls heavily again and again. It is difficult to see her, to watch her breeze through her days as I stand stone still in her wake.
Her.
Made of blue eyes, dark hair, and a smile I fall for every time, she is the best version of my worst nightmare.
Years wear on like bandage over bandage withholding the floods of a bleeding laceration. I once held hope that if I ignored it, I would no longer need stitches. But none of us will ever become so lucky, will we? Will I?
Time has been known to heal and I have pleaded with god for it to be true. But every time I see her, every time she smiles, every time she looks at me; my mending wound is reopened like an unfinished book. I have yet to find a sliver of ease, to find a medicine, to find a single needle to pull even a single stitch that will withstand the beam of someone as lovely as she is.
