i basically sat down for ten minutes and let my fingers do whatever - i thought of the first line and just built from there. :) not brilliant, but it ain't bad.
How she wishes he were here.
It is hard to remember, much, years and years later where she replaces her memories and modifies them – but, clear as the day in front of her, she remembers red and blue and freckles; a young teenage boy, and a girl, and happiness.
It may have been war time, and she may have been irritated throughout the whole thing, and it may have been a time where absolutely nothing could be happy, not the sun nor the rain nor the people under the sky.
But she was.
Because she remembers fulfillment, and challenge, and him, oh, him, and his quips and his love and their love, and the red. She remembers the importance, the looming reality of war and death and change over their heads, and she remembers, and she misses it.
How she wishes she were there.
Because he was there, him, and she remembers feeling beautiful (but she doesn't remember why), and the clumsy (god, finally) first kiss, and the bond, the triangle, and she remembers being alive amidst all of the death.
She was alive (in that tricky physiological sense, of course), but mostly in her actions – she lived, and he lived, and they all lived, and they were together, and they were happy.
But now? She is dead – not in that physiological sense, but in the sense that what the hell does she have left to live for? He is gone, and so is the other; they are not here, and she has an overwhelming yearning to see him, to see them, but she can't, she can't. She can't see him, she can't run her fingers through his short, red hair, feel the passion that was his lips – no, she can't, because he is gone, he is dead.
How she wishes he were here.
anyone who can guess which song partly inspired this gets... er, i honestly don't have much to offer. you guys think of something. :)