Seeing you was like watching a flower fall during the last days of autumn. A flower with crumbling wings - one much too eager to meet the earth. You were behind a desk stacked full of books, straddling a boy you clearly didn’t love. Your hands snaked their way across the boy’s thigh and he flushed a bright shade of red. It wasn’t just the poor boy who was captivated by you.
“Perfect.” I saw a group of girls point at you, “So blessed.” they said with hushed voices, a tinge of envy in every syllable they whispered. I shifted my attention to you and you held my gaze. It was then when all your wounds became visible and I became consumed with the hollow eyes that stared so intently into mine.
I’ve seen your eyes before. I’ve seen them in people aboard sinking ships whom I have tried to save, but refuse to be rescued. I’ve seen those eyes feed on the blood of their victims as they etch the truth onto their skin. Those eyes - your eyes, I have seen them bleed at the sight of the sun as it welcomes each new day. You see, once you’ve contemplated life beneath an elm, your eyes are never ever really the same.
You were a flower falling fast, one that would never see the first day of spring.
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