1: Your questions are answered.
2/17/04 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alasanonMy thoughts have not touched on you in a long time. Your eyes are still familiar, still blue and placid, at least until some passion strikes you and they become intense, like waves of uncertain seas. Your hair was is dark blonde, thick and heavy on your shoulders, or shyly cropped to your ears when you couldn't stand the weight. Our music still plays in my ears when I think of you, screaming guitars unbalanced and grimy with ratcheting screams, or mellow sunshiney tunes from years long passed into a golden haze of memory.
A girl on the bus glanced up at me with eyes like yours, a haircut much like the one you had when I last saw you, just five or seven years ago. Your name hovered in the back of my mouth, wanting to flap free and reveal my inability to forget. It stayed hidden, however, because she wasn't you. Her face was too narrow, her mouth not free enough with a smile, and she was too thin. Not you at all, and you would never have worn that skirt.
Of course, you thought the same thing when you saw me behind the counter, black and red and girlish all over, a far cry from the me that you knew well enough to trade truths about secret crushes with.
(yes, he looked like that character. you were right.)
Sometimes I wish there were words I could spill into your ears, but most of the time my life has moved on from that soft touching of three or four years. Still, some people strike that chord in me, and I hear a familiar voice speaking to me, like an echo of my own at twelve.
A girl on the bus glanced up at me with eyes like yours, a haircut much like the one you had when I last saw you, just five or seven years ago. Your name hovered in the back of my mouth, wanting to flap free and reveal my inability to forget. It stayed hidden, however, because she wasn't you. Her face was too narrow, her mouth not free enough with a smile, and she was too thin. Not you at all, and you would never have worn that skirt.
Of course, you thought the same thing when you saw me behind the counter, black and red and girlish all over, a far cry from the me that you knew well enough to trade truths about secret crushes with.
(yes, he looked like that character. you were right.)
Sometimes I wish there were words I could spill into your ears, but most of the time my life has moved on from that soft touching of three or four years. Still, some people strike that chord in me, and I hear a familiar voice speaking to me, like an echo of my own at twelve.
