The Writing

There's this burning passion that subsides within me. A reminder of what I think I have lost. A love for a girl I don't know. But maybe that is the true lost. She walks beside him on summer days, and I'm sure she will in Winter as well. It makes her happy, and there's nothing more to it; how can I be so jealous as to have the thought of ever impeding that?

Words don't match lyrics, and likewise my pieces do not live up to his songs. How he adores her; how it makes me jealous. It is his smile, his boyish charm, his suave that entrances her, into the deepest affection. A fondness I may find unbearable, a growing relationship that's cute.

I don't have his voice, but I'm sure my heart sings of the same song.

Writing is my pastime, my passion, my expression of everything.

But how to express this feeling when I'm sure it is too late; when last week I would have embraced every minute that I could talk to her after school, I now wait for the minutes to pass so I don't have to bear the sight. The her and him.

They smile when around each other. how cute. something that should last forever. Something that shouldn't be taken away.

Music in the form of words. Long overdue. but maybe that's why I won't write them. At least not publicly. Words, inscribed in my mind tell me of how much I miss the friendship if nothing more.

Brought me small smiles, bits of light in a day of darkness. Maybe that's all I should ask for.