His words reminded me of that time.
I was young, and you were a vision, clad in orange and black. I swear, those clothes were harvested from the dreams of wistful angels, and they were a mere highlight to your radiance. I called out to you that day, and you turned, and the light of the sun became secondary.
Well, you couldn’t really blame me, I had to stare, and in worship, take in every scorching detail. Time passed…
And still I stared, brain reduced to mayonnaise by the glare, all those fine cells containing the reason I called you, how not to be a statue, how to freaking blink. Continue reading