9:52 p.m. / September 06, 2005 - -
drugs won't get you this high
this boy is sitting at home on a tuesday night, candles lit, reading sad tales on the internet, his heart, can you hear it breaking? hold the presses, the phone rings, it's her calling, he picks up, "i don't really want to talk; i'm sad".after he finds out she's on her way over here, of course, he submits. they drive around, talking, and he notices how beautiful she is. how independent, strong. soft lips. 'the way the light is hitting her,' he thinks, '..she is an angel' and he feels stupid for thinking something so cliche, but quickly realizes how sincere it was inside of his head, a grin spreading across his face, one that would remain there in the dark of the car, the radio on, silently eyeing eachother's faded features. he feels dumb, but content. all the nuance and intricacy of sadness, only contorted around into some sort of joy. everything makes him happy. he wants to hug her, never let her go. he talks about letting his hair grow out, cutting off the green and blue and blonde, leaving it his natural brown again, and he smirks. he tells her, after groaning, adjusting himself in his seat, leaping on top of her, 'the change in hair indicates the feeling of change inside of myself'. this boy has felt like this before, oh yes, gone to far off places in hot deserts in pursuit of this chemical attraction, and now it's right there, next to him in the front seat of the car he's sitting in and oh god, he's in love again.
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