Something Honest.

 

All I care about is poetry, and a boy made of smoke.

I want to travel to Paris, and I want to live in an apartment made of perfection and beauty, a place I can do all the things that matter to me. Here's the catch, I want to live with you.

You're the smoke and I'm the fire; or maybe it's the other way around.

I'm not a fighter, and I never have been. Right now, I wish I was. I wish I fought but I didn't and I wish I told you I might have loved you but I didn't and I wish I kissed you but I didn't.

I'm leaving this place and I'm never coming back. I don't regret that decision, not for one minute. My soul has been tortured for too long, and my heart has been stomped on too often.

I'm leaving and I'm not coming back.

I'm not worried about myself, I'm worried about the future. I've never been there, and I don't know that I want to live there. I've heard nice things about it, but I've also heard the worst.

If I could visit, I'd stay for a day or two. I'd visit the tourist spots, and the spots only you know, because you'd be there. I'd find out the bad things, and the good things, and I'd keep those things in my pocket. I'd write the good things on my arms in pen so I wouldn't forget and I'd let you keep the things you wanted to keep because that's how much I care about you.


You taught me more than you know, and maybe one day I'll be able to use everything you said and I'll be able to forget about everything I wanted.

I was told you can't be a writer unless you write something honest. 

Here's the honest truth: I miss you.

I've never said that before and it's the most honest thing I know. 




Forever Yours,
Rachel.