"You can't speak,
can you?"
You asked one day.
Your voice was dancing
with curiosity and knowledge.
"It's okay, really."
My head raised up to meet
yours as I noticed the waitress
glancing at the back of your
head. She rolled her eyes
and went back to cleaning
the tables.
I took out a notepad and
scribbled down a few
words of truth.
I think you're beautiful.
A blush crept up onto
your cheeks and as
you took the paper away
from my fingertips,
I watched as your
handwriting slid across
the paper, giving it a taste
of beauty.
I think you're handsome.
A chuckle bubbled out of
your lips, I'm guessing,
because it seemed as
if you were enjoying this
moment. With me.
But then the moment, like every other,
drifted away as a car beeped outside.
A boy with tousled brown hair, impatient,
rolled down the window.
What the hell, Azura? Where
have you been?
You quickly wrote down,
I have to go. I'm sorry.
And like everything in
my life, left.
Children's tears are always lighter
and more painful than those of adults,
aren't they?
Because it felt like my eyes didn't
know how to cry anymore. I couldn't
handle the pain.
