This isn't about me. (It never was about me.)
This is about paint and sunsets that shape the sky. It's about oxfords and jeans, and how dress shoes look good with jeans. It's about sweaters and gray nail polish, and how the British spell gray with an 'e'. Grey. It's about counting and calendars and birthdays. Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday. This is about keys and locks and doorknobs that are pretty.
This is about you.
This is about fear and yawning. It's about the twinkling stars, all 76 billion. Because they shine for you, love. (And this is about you, remember?) It's about the cats that purr, and the cats that sleep, and hey, it's about the cats. This is about the fear of mistakes. This is about the blood in your veins, and the blood in her veins, and the blood in that brunette boy's veins. It's about heartbeats. It's about heartache.
This is about you.
This is about screams you can't hear, and voices you can't see. Words you can't touch because they just don't exist in real life anymore. This is about the commas, and the semicolons, and the apostrophes. It's about sounds. It's about dancing. It's about poetry. This is about pages upon pages that make no sense, and treasure maps that lead nowhere in particular. It's about the map to your heart. It's about the map away from you, too.
Forever Yours,
Rachel.
