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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1948628
Rated: E · Prose · Personal · #1948628
I wrote a piece for the first boy I've ever loved because he is depressed and beautiful.
         I remember telling you about the silly nicknames I would make and give to each of the boys I had dated and how I could never think of one for you. I remember you telling me stories about you trying to kill yourself and how you are deeply unhappy. And still, you constantly speak of some purpose everyone has in their lives. And I finally have an answer for all of those things and quite simply, it's you.

         You have the smile of an angel and the laugh of a small child. Innocent and just that of pure and genuine happiness. But your eyes are beautiful and sad, like the ocean or a really good song. I think not all sad things have to be bad. And you are just the definite cliche of all things amazing and wonderful. I do not know what to make of you most of the time, but I accept your way of being. And I cherish your spirit, which is that of a flower. You have a strong core and a good heart. You can be happy and make others happy, like when you are shared between friends or lovers. But you can be sad as well, like when you're placed on a grave and then you are left to rot like the corpse below you. You are effortlessly beautiful and delicate, and only those who are ever so gentle can handle you properly. And while I have never considered myself gentle or graceful in the least, I handle you with the most possible.

         And I think you're beautiful at all possible moments. And while I have never seen you cry, I think it's probably heart-breaking and maybe a little magical. And I think you are fascinating. And truly, you are a work of art made of stars and kissed by moons and that the sun shines on you at all times of the day. And I hope that is enough to say that I don't ever have to tell you I love you again because you already know it better than you know your name. And that maybe, in time, you will even forget the name you go by and with it, all the horrible little things the children with the sharp tongues used to make out of it in order to hurt you. And you'll start to call yourself beautiful. And I'll call you "my flower", for short. And you'll smile the most genuine smile you have felt in years and I will kiss the lovely curve on your lips. And when that happens, you will have your name, and I will have fulfilled my purpose in life.
© Copyright 2013 Paige Isaac Summers (never-speak at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1948628