You have delicate hands and eyes the color of obsidian, you love green tea and waffles, sun walks on your hands, you hate despondency and jump into the last carriage of life as if it could bring you to some better place than where we are now.

Aaron knows so much about you, but it still couldn't help him. If someone had asked him if he knew you, he would have said that you were made to hold flowers in your hands.

And he himself has dust and fear on his hands, he is looking for you in the last train, on the seat where you both often rode together, under the beds, where you hid from monsters together and in dreams. College days suck, and he doesn't even have enough money for a ticket home, so he misses his stop again in the end, getting to your house dodging a bus fare. someday he'll understand what it all means.

Perhaps he never existed, and he only flattered his smiles with yours. The stars don't shine on Aaron the way they used to.

Words are pouring from your lips with sharp edges and edges. You are my best friend, Aaron, the very best. Just a friend? He doesn't match, never matched, in fact. Mistake. It is misleading. It is integral, divided and intermediate. He is the cosmos and the immortality of the stars, he is almost like angels, he is a hurricane and a spark. The boy smile-from-broken-glass. The boy sun-tangled-in-his-hair. The boy reflection-of-the-sky-in-his-eyes. The boy i'll-catch-a-bullet-instead-of-you.

He is wild like a dream, wild and bright like a dream, bright, crimson tender and sharp, sweet, with golden spots, always with laughter hidden under his tongue, always with love flowing in his heart, always ready to run through the tremors.

He's already half dead in his dreams.

His heart is counting down thuds when aaron hesitantly knocks on your apartment door. Best friend. The second and empty place. His bones are full of pain, and his heart is full of songs. And you. Still you. He would choose you no matter what. Is he ill? Possessed? He doesn't know anymore.