Far Away
Catching Cars
It is on the sixth year that she begins to sing.
I’m getting roses from you
I’m getting a confession from you
She has a beautiful voice, one I should have suspected with her silvery laugh and golden whispers.
You are my starlight, the starlight of my heart
You are my moonlight, my precious moonlight
I only want to see you: you are the person that shines for me
The one survivor.
My only love
Once, there was one for me: a messy friendship of a boy and a girl with a boy. That I was destined to fall in love with her after she did for another was one of those clichéd stories of fate. That we ended up together, only to part indifferently, was one of teenage stupidity. The love of friends is not worth changing for a chance at romance.
“We met at a train station, waiting for a storm to end,” she muses. “I wait at one of the roads everyday for a car, hoping it will be his. He was with us when we died.”
“Tell me more,” I push. And she does, until the end of our hour.
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