Damn, your eyes.

Damn, your eyes.

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Draft 4
(HER)

He had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind that makes you want to swim back to the shore, which makes you want to sit on the sand while you watch the waves move back and forth, and which you just can’t get enough of. When I looked into his eyes, I saw myself. And even his eyes, just like his words, made me feel beautiful. But beneath the reflection lay emotions he never wanted to talk about. There was a story of fear narrated by his frantic eyeballs, fear of not being held on for, fear of not being worth someones time. He had once told me about it, about being an atelophobic (which he considered to be the worst fear of all).

His gleaming eyes told me about the times when he had breakdowns but no tears had come to his aid. Stars twinkled in his eyes, not of hope but of longing. Longing for the day when his fears, anxiety and confusion come to a rest. I wanted to be there when the day came, and I wanted to be the reason why.

(HIM)

She had beautiful eyes. Not the kind which makes you want to drown, but the kind which makes you want to set the world on fire. She had fire in her eyes, and it made you warm. It was a campfire by which you and your friends sat down and had marshmallows as you sang “Stairway to heaven”. It was a forest-fire burning down everything that came in its way. But it was also the fire that heated a blade to remove a bullet. It was beautiful, destructive and caring. But beneath the fire were stories only a few people knew. There was light in her eyes, unfolding the story of how she feared the darkness that consumed everything every night. There was passion in her eyes, a passion that burned brighter every day. And there was chaos, stories of when her heart had been broken, of when her mind hurt from thinking too much, and of when she just could not do anything about it.

The fire in her eyes was not of anger, but of intensity, passion and love. It was ablaze, and I wanted to burn in it. I wanted to destroy myself in her love. I wanted to burn in her fire. I wanted it so much, that even as I take my last breath, I hold it in a little longer and burn a little more.

 – Excerpts from a book I will never write.


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Addictions and lies.

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I’m addicted to coffee. There are more dirty mugs in my sink and empty coffee bottles in my dustbin than the number of people I trust. The first conversation I have in the day is with a steaming mug of coffee that smells of hopes and reality. I wrap my fingers around the warmth and let it wake me up, despite me not having slept at all last night. The bitter taste of coffee burning my tongue is like a pat on the back, and I am all for motivation. I am high on coffee every day.

I’m addicted to music. The melody is my drug and I cannot live without it. I sleep to the voice of Ed Sheeran and wake up to Selena Gomez. Which is why I’d ask you to ‘kiss me’ at night and have anxiety attacks as I run through the jungles of my mind like ‘wolves’ in the morning. I’d relate to the lyrics of a song more than have feelings of déjà vu’s. I’ve been called an introvert, but I am not. I am an extrovert and I socialize a lot with music.

I am addicted to lying. I have this weird habit of telling myself every morning I will sleep that night, even though it is nothing but a white lie. I’ve pretended to be over someone, even though I still look for them in the hallways of my university. I’ve said I am okay way too many times, for even that to be healthy. When you fake a smile often enough, it becomes a habit and your smile is reduced to being just a twitch in your muscles.

I am addicted to her. I am addicted to the way we read poetry to each other like lullabies on a Tuesday night, and the way she giggles at dark humor. I love the way she looks at me in dim lights, and the way she trips over nothing. I love the smell of her hair, honey and coconut. She isn’t sunshine. She is hot chocolate and Christmas.

But most of all, I am addicted to the way the butterflies in my stomach go crazy when she whispers in my ears as we take a sip from the warm mugs of coffee with ‘Skin’ playing somewhere in the house. “I love you too.” Oh, what a beautiful lie.


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11:11s.

There are some things that bother me every night after 2 AM, after I listen to music with lyrics that do nothing except reminding me that you’ll never be mine.

It bothers me that I’ll never love someone this way ever again. Love changes everyday, and it bothers me that you’ll never be my constant. Someday, I might love someone else a little more than I love you, but I really don’t want to. I don’t want to fall in love with a brighter smile or a less scarred hands. Why would I when I can read your stories on your wrists in beautiful ink? Why would I when I can feel this strongly for someone so beautiful?

It bothers me that my wish of you being my first kiss will remain a wish. The world is not a wish granting factory after all.

It bothers me that I’ll never be someone you text when your hands fumble and your lips tremble and your sight blurs. It bothers me that I’ll never enter your mind when you want someone to talk to. I know I don’t deserve it, but when has that ever stopped anyone? When has worth ever weighed more than love?

It bothers me that every time you ask me something, I don’t know what to say.
When you wonder if you’re my muse, should I say that I write about you all the time, should I tell you that you’re my broken promises, 11:11s, the reason I believe in love, and my muse or just say that I write about you sometimes?

It bothers me that my always will never be your someday.


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Broken.

“I’m always tired, but never of you” – Gnash

She smelled of sweet syrups and fresh roses, of expensive perfume and cheap thrills, of long drives and messy hair.

I miss her. I miss the songs that we sang at the top of our voices, the pictures that we clicked with our dog between us, and just sleeping all day long. I miss looking into her sleepy eyes with hot chocolate in our hands and just love in our hearts. I miss not having to miss her because I knew she wouldn’t leave me, and I miss not being alone late at night or early in the day, whenever I had a breakdown. You see, that’s why love is so unfairly criticized, because it can end friendships some times. I miss her being with me, but I don’t know if I miss us. There’s nothing to miss, so even when I try, I just fall apart with no memories to hold onto.

I dial her number every day just to hear the familiar ring of her cell, but I cut every time just after she says hello, cause I don’t know what I should say. I fear that once I start talking, there’ll be no stopping me and I’ll just go on about how I loved her and she never knew. I’d use words like waves against the walls of her heart, and I know she would try to calm me down, but anything she could say would only be like the howling wind acting as a fuel for the forest fire that my heart is in. I fear that I’ll tell her I am in pain because of something that we never became, of something that she doesn’t even know of.

I play the same songs on the radio in my car every day, and drive by the coffee shops, and flower stalls and empty streets that often call out for our presence. The receptionist at Walmart asks me why I haven’t been shopping late at night anymore, and the food vendors ask me why I look so dull. Little do they know, that I miss her muddy slippers and soft hands, and that I have lost her forever.

I miss her smell.

She smelled of sweet syrups and fresh roses, of expensive perfume and cheap thrills, of long drives and messy hair.


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Grey.

Love can be cruel. You’re falling apart, drowning in your own tears, wondering where you went wrong and the damned thing still gives hope. Your wrist is cut, your mascara smeared all over, your head is dizzy and the damned thing will still not let you let it go. You are wearing long sleeves to hide the pain, smiling to convince someone that you’re fine, and saying that you’re over him, but it will still make your eyes look around for him. Love can be poisonous. It will kill you before you get a chance to think about what has happened. You will be falling to the ground, your eyes closing, giving into the darkness, and it will be the reason why. It’s not fun. It really is not.

But it is worth it.

The butterflies in your stomach, the rush of blood in your cheeks, and the constant urges to hug him tell you so. Every time you kiss him as the sun sets, every time you hold his hand just to have something to hold onto, every time you shed tears but the pillow does not get wet because he is there, you will know it is worth it. As you have sex on the terrace, drink wine on the seventieth date, and just look at each other with awe, you will know its worth it. When you listen to tapes of old music, make out in the car, or just stay together in silence, you will know that it’s worth everything that could go wrong.

Love can be cruel, and it can be sweet. You will get a taste of both. You will feel the mixed colours of darkness and light and the strange things it leaves behind. You will see the clouds darken, the weather worsening as a storm comes, but you will find peace in the rain in chaos it brings. You will see it as a poison you so desperately needed to get away from a more vicious world. You will be broken, but you’ll also be happy. You will be grey.


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