It’s 2 AM and my thoughts are eating me.
I take a deep breath and I hope I can trace it with my pen because he said that every breath of mine is beautiful… like the wind gushing around in the playground I used to slide and swing and dance and play.
Then I smile at the words my pen is making and I hope I can draw it for him–no, not my words, but my smile– because he said he likes my smile and it brightens his day… like the silver-colored jacket of the moon at night and the intoxicating flames of the sun at noon.
And then I stare at my ceiling–realizing something. I miss him so badly that I cry. I hope I can frame my tears for him because I know he’ll find them wonderful… like the spectacular ‘Starry Night‘ of Van Gogh, like the glistening pieces of a crystal and the enchanting drops of snow and rain.
Even though I don’t find my tears pretty, I know he’ll love them.
Even if I find them frustrating and infuriating… for they resemble my sadness, anger, hatred, and fear. I don’t see them enchanting like the snow or rain because I see them as broken shards of glass, pleading to be fixed. So I don’t know why he likes my tears. But he said he does and I believe him because my tears also symbolize my happiness which he gives me every hour, every minute, every second of every day.
And I miss him… like the cold drops of rain being missed by the suffocating desert, like the air I tried to find on the surface when I was drowning… the cotton-like comfort I always find in writing and talking to him.
And I hope he misses me too like the ink of a pen begging to kiss the paper. Like a kite–unable to speak–itching to soar in midair…
And like the way I miss him that I used tons of objects and adjectives just to say I miss him.