Hey you.

This idea of falling in love, comes with a feeling. The first kisses, how skin from a foreign being brushes against yours. Leaves you with a strange fuzziness that grows inside you. The teasing, the mystery. The touch at the back of the neck, the sweet taste of the lips. The longing, desire. You want to see her. You want to see her often. You are infatuated of the idea that this girl in front of you is fond of you, she leaves you with that strange fuzziness.

So you let yourself fall. You let yourself dissolve in her life, like how ink slowly diffuses into paper. She writes pages about you now and then. Your name appears in her present. She lets you in, lets you take a glimpse of the pages. She's afraid of the pages but she continues writing. She's ashamed of them, and at times, proud. 

The pages were dark. They were hopeless. A cesspool of cold filthy thoughts. And there you were, a bright shining light. It makes her write about stupid things like flowers, meadows, cats. They were daydreams, but they were good. Once in awhile, the dark comes back. Looms over her, it could suffocate her, break her. But she sees you. Bright, shining light. 

---

My bright shining light gets dimmer. I say this because he is honest. He speaks the truth. He doesn't get that strange fuzziness anymore. He glimpsed too long at the pages. He doesn't need me.

Am I even worthy of a bright shining light?