The little girl walks alone.

Life was a seasonal blur of things that went well and things that go wrong. Life is about the good and the bad, a mixture of those things that make you tear your hair out and cry over the pureness of it. A little pup not matured, but bares its teeth on more than one occasion. Not trained in anyway, fixated on the small details and forgetting the big picture. Lights flashing on and off, sun rising and setting, a day away from tomorrow is always.

The little boy sits alone.

Defining definitions aren’t easy, because you neglect the meaning behind the words and you find yourself so flustered. The storm is over but the fear of what has become of the world has not yet ended. The faded sweater you so often wear imprints in the cushion of the couch and you’re left alone wondering where everyone disappeared to. Small sounds resonated through the empty air and your fingers tapped on the wooden bench.

The girl was lost and the boy was waiting.

You and I had nothing in common, save for the emptiness we felt. You were happy to find someone, but once you realized how I was, you felt disappointed. I’m just as dead as the world around us, as the blackness of midnight and the stars falling to earth. I’m not what you’re looking for, you’re not what I’m trying to find.

The little girl left the boy.

So I wandered again and left you to wait for something that never came. I was the next best thing and even then, you couldn’t have me. You were waiting for something that had died, you had already died, but I wasn’t looking for you and I’m not what you’re interested in. I was just as dead as the world around us and you died with me the moment we met.

The boy laughed loudly and the girl stopped.

What. When. Where. Who. How. Only the little aspects of life could never redeem the counting figure of the already dead hour hand. Strange things happen in the dead city at midnight; a bus without a driver came to one particular bus stop and lets whoever was wandering aboard. No one knew where it went, but the boy was waiting for the bus to come so he can leave. The girl noticed him laughing but continued to walk away, thinking, if he loves me, he’ll follow. If he wants me, he’ll search, but the boy already found her.

Where there was silence, truth is but a lie.

The illusion of reality is strong and the senses of being alive dulled after years of experiencing the same thing over and over again. The fingers gliding across the wooden bench waited for the girl to turn around, not the boy waiting, but the fingers tapping on the smooth wood. The girl stopped, turned, but left anyway. She had the same thought as him, but neither was willing to get up and walk. The bus collected the boy’s soul and they lived in regret for centuries to come.

Hear the cries of our dead heart.

The bolded words aren’t bolded, but thickened with blood and filled with hatred. Only, this time, the girl turned around and the boy ran towards her, pass her, to the boy behind her, and the fingers on the wooden bench belonged not to the boy, but to the girl she was waiting for.

They found love in different forms.

Inspired by the prompt: Love comes in different forms. My cousin was given this writing prompt for her creative writing class and I stole it and wrote about it and this was what birthed of it. It was actually a lot longer and was more in depth but I just shortened it. Well now, off to write my essay. See you guys.