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It’s like sitting 3 seats behind and one seat to the right of someone on a crowded yellow bus, the cold air outside air steaming the window that you rest your head on as you contemplate why the girl beside him is not you.
Its like waiting at a red light, mindlessly anticipating the change but waiting as the seconds stretch longer, mind alert yet relaxed, eyes wandering yet watching until the green circle appears in your line of vision and soothes you for a short moment.
It’s like the crescendo of music, making your chest feel lighter and your dreams explode larger in your ears.
It’s like wanting some, but having none.
It’s like kissing; it’s like art.
It’s like the empty night sky seen through a grimy window, no stars shining brightly, only the bare moon, sadly solitary in its pregnant silver-white glow.
It’s like the breaking of a bone, sharp and painful but disembodied, femur snapping harshly on impact. It’s like the excruciation that follows – the tears, the deep breaths, the stares.
Its like heat of a bright light shining directly in your face, blinding you to everything, making bright blotches dance behind your closed eyelids, a picture magically painted across your retinas that is better than the images you see when your eyes are open.
Its like raw tears shed in a shower, water pounding against your aching skull so your family will not hear, desperation so overwhelming that it hurts.
But most of all, its like a boy. A blonde haired, blue-eyed boy. He’s funny and smart and quirky. He’s friendly and nice and plays the guitar. But he’s sitting 3 seats to the front and one front of you as you lean your head against the window and wait for the red light to pass, because you are uncomfortable. You steal a glance at him with her as your music plays through your headphones, looking away quickly as they kiss. You stare instead at the moon – it is bright but it brings little solace, and you feel as if something inside you has snapped. Maybe its something outside of you that has broken, you don’t really know at this point in your numbed state of apathy. All of a sudden the bus stops, and the lights return, involuntarily sending you into a squint and shocking you like cold liquid would. You get off the bus sad and don’t really know what you will do when you get home.
Love. You try to describe it, try to rip it out of your chest bloody and red and alive but cannot accurately transfer it to the black ink required by the paper, or to the wordless mumblings of human speech. It’s like too many things. Its present in too many ways; it infectious grip can never be escaped.
Love. It’s like the rhythmic beating of a heart. A heart still beats, even when it is broken.
I know this now.