Try describing love in 250 words and see how far it takes you. I barely have the time to tell you that the first thing I noticed was the writing on the soles of his shoes. They were song lyrics, he told me later, when we were sprawled out in the grass, pointing fingers out at the sky spilled with buckets of stars.
The funny thing is that love eludes you for a while; I thought I hated him until I fell asleep that night with a wicked matchstick smile burning on my face.
They tell you that you can’t be in love when you’re only sixteen, and maybe they’re right. In any case, it ended. No fanfare. Just goodbyes and long stares, and a funny feeling in my stomach when I realized that the striations of our eyes were scarred the same. 150 words now after this is written. And I’m already at the end. What does that say about us?
I thought it would be hard to cram the moments in. I thought I’d never have a time to explain the nights where the world became so small that we could hear our voices echo back as they looped their way around the planet’s girth. What’s funny is that most moments drip like liquid through my fingers. I try to keep them in my hands, but I can’t; they drip between my forefingers and thumbs for time to claim.
250 words, ending here: love just died too soon.