CandyRot

I remember someone writing me poetry. It seems so far away now. It was bittersweet. Was it so simple for him. Or maybe it was so simple for me. My mind likes to switch the story.

I took him. He took me. The only thing notable about it was that it was my first time. How many years ago? Six.

He first wrote a poem about my fair skin..auburn hair. I only remember that. I wish I could remember more. But, I can't. It's so sad looking back. Wishing I could remember him. Remember him as I did five years ago. But he's gone. Out of reach. Therefore dead to me.

His poetry is not. It's a sad song I sing to myself. In my head. A song no one else will ever know. No matter how often I sing it or try to explain it.

The sad song is the ending. The last poem he wrote for me. Realizing he didn't want me.

Can you believe that he cried when he told me he didn't want me? He did. He was older. In his 20's. So wise. We talked about intelligent things. Things I never knew. I felt infatuation. I was so young. I feel sick. His name was Zach.

I saw him once at the rennaisance fair. I wanted to touch him. One last time. I wanted to pull his eyes out of his head.

Tear his heart out of his still beating chest. But I don't mean it now.
I love him for sharing the experience with me. And hate him for crying.
He had the audacity to cry.