Tomlinson
When we first met, 2012 was abstract chalk on the sidewalk. He began leaving his soul, but making sure it wasn't permanent like lies girls have told a thousand times. He began teaching me the dirt of people doesn't always wash away to get to the good part of them.
When we found ourselves, we were hand in hand, smiling, just so stitched together. I began to ask, what changed an he said, "I see red, I think blood, but when you see red, you think roses and love with passion". I found in those words of his, I was the only one he found who wouldn't mark him as a criminal.
Late nights, I would crawl into his chest and fixate my attention on keeping his heart beating, but never wanting to know more. I pull words from hi mouth when it gets deep and would understand him when he touched my heart.
Sunday afternoon, he went from busy to lying in my bed, just falling for a part of me. He cried in my lap and told stories I won't ever write about or tell. He wished I could go back in time, just pull every single version of himself into my chest, but he won't ever know I already have.
He just accepted the horrors as unanswered prayers, but loving certain people when all he could see were the things they ripped away from him. He was stronger before they expected him to be. He was a little boy who would one day grow into a man. He never shook or bent under pressure of things in his shaky life, and that's something men older then him would never understand, but no matter what he does, I still think of him as a man.
He began chasing after angels and a girl who would one day look at him like I did because, when we knew our time was ending, we became blurry to each other. He was graffitied art on the side of a street building. He's a walking bad boy with intentions that are good. Somehow, that affected me when all I wanted was to scrub edges of him, but I just stared..admired.
We never had lasted the way we thought, but days I spent with him were not wasted because, they were cherished. He turned my heart into something that aches for messy, imperfect love. You know, that kind that won't leave, it just lasts a lifetime, somewhere far away from people.
In the end, this dust settled beautifully when it hung in the air. Separated like a kiss. Beautiful, but much more tragic, no less.
Copyright © Stevie Yost | Year Posted 2016
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