He once told me about his love for lyrics. How the words spoke to him like poetry.
I would often wonder about his playlist and the ghosts who lived there. The faces he saw and the voices he heard.
The first time I saw him, I noticed how haunted his eyes were. And I was drawn to him, in the way a melody draws a crowd to the dance floor. Pulled by invisible strings.
Now I wonder if I am one of those ghosts - If I am somewhere, drifting between those notes. I hope I am. I hope whenever my song plays, I am there, whispering in his ear.
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It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure, really did happen. There are no photographs, no receipts... Just the memory sitting in my mind, like a half blown dandelion, waiting to be fractured, dismembered. Waiting to disintegrate into nothing.
When I close my eyes, the pictures play like a blurry montage. I can see us driving for hours, until the street signs grew less familiar - the flickering lamplights giving away to stars. Then sitting across from you in that quiet, little Italian place. Your hands pushing the plates aside, reaching across for mine.
The conversations we had about everything and nothing. And kissing you. How I remember that.
It was one of those nights that my mind still can't be sure of. That wonders if I was ever there at all.
Yet in my heart, it feels as though I've never left.
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I know it's over, I really do. I know it has been for quite some time. It's over yet my heart still feels you. You are a memory to me now, but my mind still thinks of you.
What we had was finished long ago - yet the words will not stop flowing.
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Yet never have I been bolder or brighter than I am with you. Not once have I ever felt so alive. Whatever vessel we pour ourselves into, mine is now overflowing, brimming with live. It is transcending into something new. Love is no longer love, love is you.
Lang Leav
