pensive-grey

i'd known the number of days that you'd been gone. the number of days that i had not seen you. you said that you did too and you told me the number. it didn't occur to you that maybe i'd actually been keeping track. you were seventeen days off.    seventeen used to be my favorite number. • you'd called me everyday since you'd left. or at least you tried to. sometimes work (or so you said) got in the way. i wanted you to explain that voice in the background, but i didn't say anything. i didn't want to hurt your feelings.    or maybe i just didn't want to know. • me. me. me. me. it was your favorite word, and it seemed you

we used to draw smiley faces on the bottoms of each other's toes, and draw hearts around our belly buttons. when i put blue streaks in my hair, you called me the prettiest smurf you've ever seen and i just laughed. life was so easy then. life could be easier now, too, if you were still here. • we still talk to each other over the phone. "do you remember the new year's we got drunk on non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice and candy bars?" you'll say. i'll be smiling and sitting in the small space between my bed and the wall and thinking that you can hear my thoughts when you really can't. "yes," i'll say when i remember you're not a su

i want the snow to fall down around us in delicate circles, nipping our skin and turning it bright red as we move our arms and legs making snow angels. we'd laugh in the bitter cold, not really caring if we got frostbite because it would just make this time more memorable. i'd like the flakes to stick to my eyebrows and hair and eyelashes so i could be the snow princess that i so need to be. i could be pure for once, beautiful in white, and i'd pretend that i was happy. and maybe i wouldn't even be pretending. i wish that you could be my special someone in this winter wonderland, and i could be yours. everybody knows that there's no such

he used to wrap his fingers around my wrist. "i could break this so easily." "i know." "aren't you going to try and get away?" he'd ask. "no. break it." i'd answer. he'd sigh and shove me away, looking like i'd done something to hurt him. he never broke my wrist, but sometimes i wish he would have. • we used to go to the cemetery together and study the names on the gravestones, thinking up morbid ways the person may have probably most likely died. sarah mayer fell down the stairs, snapping her neck and dying a slow, painful death. david greene fell off the top of a building, with nothing but cold, hard concrete to break his fall