Grief Written

Remember the moon? Remember how it continued to shine despite the darkness crowding it? Remember how we used to dream about going to the moon, drew plans on empty pages, built model rockets out of cardboard? Remember how it was just a race on who could get there first, who could touch it, mark it first? Remember as soon as we left the moon it was forgotten? Yes I remember the moon. I know the moon, all too well. I heard she fell in love with a sea. I heard she missed him in the day, and drew him to her at night. I heard that she kept revolving, desperate to catch a look at every part of him and show him every piece of her. I also heard that his depths were so dark and far that no part of her every reached all of him. She missed him everyday. But you don't really want to talk about the moon or the sea. You want to talk about you and me. All the moon ever was to you was a carefully constructed metaphor. Let's be honest here Often, we spoke plainly in metaphors.

You've imagined this all wrong. Allow me to reset the scene. We're on top of a stage in New York City. You have white gloves, a midnight black top hat, and booming voice saying, "For my next trick, I will make my lovely assistant disappear." That was me, the assistant. I was only there to, well assist, because I was never the main attraction kind of girl. No one paid to see me. I was an assistant. An inciting incident there to move things a long, and to be honest I didn't really mind. The reason why was standing next to me. He smiled a smile that made people dedicate things to him art, poetry, music, hearts, they were all his at the tilt of his lips. His blue eyes sparkled with all the bright lights focused on us but there was something there besides the light that made them sparkle. Oh the lovely assistant was madly in love with the talented magician. He focused on her and his demeanor shifted and all she could think was "god he loves me too."

"Your writing is the most beautiful thing I've ever read. You say things that I'm afraid to say. You aren't afraid to say the truth when everyone else is scared to admit that that's the way they feel." -A boy in love. January 25, 2015.  He is no longer in love so no, he probably wont find this beautiful, or brave, he'll probably hate it. I am not a nightmare lurking in the dark corners of your mind. I am not the ghost that reappears and vanishes in one breath that was drawn before the endless screaming. I am not the one that holds your unsteady heart in my hands and devours it whole. I was never charming or deceiving. I never lurked, or disappeared to reappear, or devoured. I looked you straight into the heart and told you I was dead. I whispered you shouldn't love me because I had the habit of turning into a poltergeist. I rattle, thrash, scream, and wreck the inhabitants of my heart. I waltzed through the hallways and continued to remind