(no subject)
I'm not sure it's hit me yet.
It's too much yet to accept that you, the boy who came to Starbucks to see me and, when offered a free drink, asked for a kid's glass of cold apple juice is gone.
This is my armful of butterflies, trying to hold onto the memories, pick out each distinct hue, distinguish each feather brush of each wing. The way they're whirling, they're threatening to all fly away.
You, the boy whose fingers were a poem. What will happen to those beautiful hands that used to captivate me so? I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful hands. What will happen to your quiet quirky half-smile always displayed on your face when you would draw? What about the way you'd beam when what you got onto paper exactly what you saw in your head? What will happen to the way Ms. Brown pretended to be pissed off when you pretended to sneak out of her class before the bell rang? What about the way you asked me for help with your drawings, asked to borrow my 6B, asked me to hold up your drawing so you could see if it looked just as good from a distance? What about the way you asked me if you could trade assignments with me, so you could draw Malcolm X, your hero? The way we'd tease each other?
I can't think of anything else to say. It's all been said, and I guess it speaks for itself.
RIP.
It's too much yet to accept that you, the boy who came to Starbucks to see me and, when offered a free drink, asked for a kid's glass of cold apple juice is gone.
This is my armful of butterflies, trying to hold onto the memories, pick out each distinct hue, distinguish each feather brush of each wing. The way they're whirling, they're threatening to all fly away.
You, the boy whose fingers were a poem. What will happen to those beautiful hands that used to captivate me so? I don't think I've ever seen such beautiful hands. What will happen to your quiet quirky half-smile always displayed on your face when you would draw? What about the way you'd beam when what you got onto paper exactly what you saw in your head? What will happen to the way Ms. Brown pretended to be pissed off when you pretended to sneak out of her class before the bell rang? What about the way you asked me for help with your drawings, asked to borrow my 6B, asked me to hold up your drawing so you could see if it looked just as good from a distance? What about the way you asked me if you could trade assignments with me, so you could draw Malcolm X, your hero? The way we'd tease each other?
I can't think of anything else to say. It's all been said, and I guess it speaks for itself.
RIP.