iii. eyes

(this doesn’t deserve a picture) this was written a really, really long time ago, was going through my tumblr archive and dug this up amongst an endless debris of sadness. sometime two years ago? sorry for the unedited 12/13-year old writing. ):


how much of what you see do you remember?

i remember. i remember the girl in the park and how her eyes shone in the glint of the morning sun while she watched the couple by the bench beside hers. i remember the boy in blue and how his blue eyes looked so alone amidst the sea of shining people. the girl in glassy coffee shops staring out the window longing to see those eyes again, those eyes that most likely were looking at a blue, cloudless sky while hers embraced the darkness. i remember the way you drowned your eyes in tears, the day you noticed the leak in the layer of vaseline you once called protection on your skin– and waves of turbid truth and raw feeling flowed out to escape captivity.

i remember the firsts. i remember the lasts. but i forget. i forget. how about the time we drove from california to washington?, you ask.

oh, i remember. of course i do. i remember the walks on the beaches of los angeles, the cool ocean breeze, the clichés of barefoot evening strolls. i remember the way your eyes drifted far away when we watched the waves fold over each other like fondant on the shore. i remember the quietly peaceful town of corvallis, the colours of the salem farmyards in summer, mount hood without all its winter glory, the city of portland where the lights were reflected in your eyes and brought out all the stratums of color in those deep eyes. i remember chasing each other up and down the streets of seattle in the morning, holding brown coffee that matched your eyes in a certain light. i remember the beauty of it all, everything that was there.

you remember the lunch that we missed after getting lost in san francisco, the orange that was absent from the sky during sunset in eugene. at sacramento, you remember the colour of the socks i wasn’t wearing, the rose i’d left behind at crater lake. at the coast, you remember the picture we didn’t take and the way my eyes didn’t light up with the setting sun. you remember the rain that forgot to come in olympia, and most of all, you remember the way my distant eyes didn’t look into yours the drive back to los angeles. you remember the emptiness of it all, everything that wasn’t there. did you forget to see all i saw? or did you forgot all we saw?

there are so many things that we remember, but how about all the things we’ve forgotten? what are the things you see that you forget to remember, remember to forget?


my god, this is really bad.


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