dear frank,
i stayed up late again night. it hurts to sleep, physically hurts, because my eyes burn and sting whenever i close them. i can't stay still; my hands keep shaking uncontrollably and everything in my body has little shock-like pains coursing through them, all the time. everyday. and it's so hard.
at precisely 3:02 am last night, i thought i could hear your laugh. i don't know if it was all in my head, or if you were actually there, but the sound was beautiful, as i remembered. and as my terrible insomnia was not allowing me to sleep, i had more time to think.
think about how you would bring your journal with you everywhere. you would never go anywhere without it, and you were always sketching hauntingly beautiful drawings and writing songs; and the thing i remember the most vividly about your journal, is how you would bite your slightly swollen lips whenever you were sketching, your teeth scraping at the soft, pink flesh that i dream of kissing only ever again.
think about your ever-changing, spur-like cycle of creativity, that seemed to become a type of aura around you. your creativity was always something i adored, frank, and how you had the ability to write amazing, meaningful songs, i never know. i always envied that great trait about you.
i thought about your emotions. how you would barely feel regret with something like dying your hair a different colour, how you would feel upset whenever someone you loved was in distress, and how you were so, very empathetic.
the thing i loved most about you was the fact that you never cared about what anyone else thought about you. if you wanted to cut your hair and dye it the lightest shade of white you could find, streaks messy as ever, you would go on ahead. if you wanted to grow out your hair and dye it black, so be it.
but the more i keep remembering, the harder it is to keep going.
i need to tell you i love you
- your love
