Me and the Infinite Sorrow
Can't sleep. Too sad.
The thought of never running my hands through his hair again pulls at my heartstrings painfully. Thinking of all the hair he'll grow, and cut, and grow again without me seeing it or teasing him about it does the same. I miss his eyes that would turn blue and green, the freckles that made a Cassiopeia on his arm, the way he smelled, the way I fit into his shoulder just so.
These are the things one thinks about when one forgets the fighting, the aggravated sighs that wound--the refusal to touch, to kiss, to hug, and remembers only the soft nights and touches, the smiles, the wonder, the heat.
All so far gone, but the memory lingers and brings tears to my eyes that it will never be rediscovered.
And so I can't sleep.
The thought of never running my hands through his hair again pulls at my heartstrings painfully. Thinking of all the hair he'll grow, and cut, and grow again without me seeing it or teasing him about it does the same. I miss his eyes that would turn blue and green, the freckles that made a Cassiopeia on his arm, the way he smelled, the way I fit into his shoulder just so.
These are the things one thinks about when one forgets the fighting, the aggravated sighs that wound--the refusal to touch, to kiss, to hug, and remembers only the soft nights and touches, the smiles, the wonder, the heat.
All so far gone, but the memory lingers and brings tears to my eyes that it will never be rediscovered.
And so I can't sleep.