I remember the day when I noticed how big your eyes were.
The sky was blue that day – the adolescent kind, where the
clouds were bouncy and reckless and the wind giggled at me as it
passed. You smiled at me, and your eyes did too, and I found myself
wondering how I’d ever missed them before. They were the color
of my dresser with sunbeams draped along the top. I knew I could
trust you then, because even with that grin sprawled across your face
your eyes were open enough to hold my reflection.
Sometime after that I noticed your hair. It was flighty and sandy and
god-awful at all kinds of conformity. So were you. That was the day
that you whispered your insecurities to me under a star-cloaked sky.
You tied them with bows and tripped over your own feet as you
presented them to me sheepishly. I only laughed and helped you
untangle them all.
Your nose shortly followed suit, as did countless other traits and
features I wish I could just do away with now. They aren’t of
much use anymore.
As much as I try not to, I remember the day you left, too.
It would be fitting, I’ve decided, if that day turned out to be
grey. Then again, things are hardly ever fitting, so I’ve
decided again and deemed it a brilliant orange.
To be completely honest, I don’t know what color the sky was
that day. I was looking at you instead. Your Bambi eyes wouldn’t
look back.
Later on, you tried to pretend things were the way they used to be –
when I noticed how big your eyes were and when the wind did more than
just whistle. I don’t know if you ever convinced yourself of
that, but you tried like hell. Your hair was that same kind of wild,
and your laugh was still childish and uncontrollable. You always
smiled, just like old times. It was me, I suppose.
I just couldn’t seem to find my reflection anymore.
Thanks for stopping by to take a look!
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