Broken Clocks

Can We Pretend We're In Love?

I used to share so much with you. All these little stories, these little jokes, these little bits and pieces of poems;clever words and sentimental secrets.

My first journal.

You bought it for me.

I was used to writing on neon colored sticky notes and crumpled scrap pieces of paper. Then it was online services like LiveJournal. But none of it felt real. I wrote lyrics to songs and anonymous letters to lost lovers.

But the whole world could see those things. It was no longer personal.  It didn't mean anything anymore.

But then you bought me this journal.  Fresh, leather bound, with thick, creamy white sheets of paper. The first page, in beautiful indigo ink, sloppily scrawled in childlike handwriting, was my name. Ryan.

It smelled like old cedar and dogwood flowers, warm, comforting. I realized I had been standing there smiling like an idiot.

You waited.

"I-I", I stammered.

"It's beautiful"

"As are you"

Brendon.

I never meant to fall in love with you. I never meant to love you at all.  I couldn't truly understand why I did. It could've been the way you smiled, teeth flashing, head thrown back, giggling like a young child.

And it could've been your skin. The way you sparkled in the moonlight,spinning my head in circles, casting shadows around the room, a hint of mischief in your copper colored eyes. How you glowed, a thousand tiny diamonds reflected there on your skin.

It could've been the way you sang, like colorful birds perched high on the fence. Like anything and everything you had was brought forth in the sounds that came from your gentle lips.

It could've been the way that you loved. As if all you'd ever wanted was to love. As if loving was what saved you, redeemed you. As if you ever could've sinned.

Today I saw stars.

"Hello sunshine", you said.
And I broke

But it didn't hurt the way it should've. It didn't hurt because of the soft tone of voice you used. No, it didn't hurt like that. And under certain circumstances, it would've hurt in a different way, hurt in the most beautiful way possible. It would've hurt like you loved me. It didn't hurt like that either.

It hurt in a completely different way. It hurt like we were friends. It hurt like deja vü like we'd done and see this all before. It hurt to know you used to mean it.

And yes, you still smiled at me.

And yes, you still made me laugh.

And yes, you still kissed me when you were drunk, blabbering about the way I sang and how much you thought you loved me.

You used to. You used to love me.

You smile and you say things like "hello sunshine" and it makes me ache all over knowing it's so staged. Knowing that you're just laughing and faking these meaningful looking glances for the camera.

It hurts, knowing that at one point it was real.

Or was it?

You still laughed the same way. You still kissed the same way.

How could it have ever meant anything if you could fake it and it be the same.

"Good morning sweetheart". I forced myself to smile. You walked over to me, hair flipped in your face slightly, coffee mug pressed to your lips.