One of the risks of being quiet is that other people can fill your silence with their own interpretation: You’re bored. You’re depressed. You’re shy. You’re stuck up. You’re judgmental. When others can’t read us, they write their own story—not always one we choose or that’s true to who we are.
We were sitting on a picnic bench surrounded by clouds
I could feel the tangible space between where my leg almost touched yours
You rested your hand on my leg and you looked me in the eyes and kissed me
You loved me
It’s a shame
The clouds were cigarette smoke
You never looked at me
And you never loved me
Isn’t it funny how creatively the mind tries to rewrite our mistakes?
In desperate need of friends :/
