Odd Future - White
Her fingers are consolatory, tracing designs on your forehead, but they're not his. They don't tremble incessantly, you don't feel vibrations when they graze over your temple. Nails aren't blunt and fingers aren't warm.
Could this be Earth? Could this be light?
Brunette locks are straightened and draped over one shoulder, a radical difference from a haywire blond rat's nest. Your lips part in a smile at the vivid thought of this unique feature. Her own plump lips quirk up in a beam of her own, but it does not affect you positively. In fact, your mood seems to dampen. Substantially because she doesn't know what you're so mirthful about, and she never will. You will never bring the name to light. Whenever your smile drops, the movement of her hand respites. There's a silent empathetic understanding, so she does not question you.
Does this mean everything is going to be alright?
Sitting up on your elbows, you give her that look. It's a gaze that requests of her: "Can you give me a second?" She's a sweet girl, so she nods and picks herself up, walking out of your shared bedroom on thin, bare legs to another area of the apartment. Instead of making any more correlations of her and the one you love, you instead smooth out the white comforter of the bed, and gaze outside. Snow flutters to the pure ground, as if dancing. Tree's leaves attempt to carry all of the precipitation they can, but eventually, clumps of it splat to the bed beneath it. It is hypnotizing more than anything.
When I look out my window, there's trees talking like people.
After a good two minutes or less, you lay back on the bed, your hands fingering the material that matches your shirt. Thin, and delicate, and pale, just like he had been. Once again, your mind is on him, but why wouldn't it be? He consumed the majority of your life up until you turned eighteen. Nights spent laying side by side in a bed familiar to this, your minds seemingly running together, gears and imagery working because you would always say the same, and you would meld together, and it was never irritating. It was almost humorous, how similar your thought processes, ideas, and dreams were, and how different both of you appeared on the outside, face and attitude-wise. Alone though, on nights where you would sip on Bolthouse Farm drinks because his mother promoted a vegan lifestyle, and make silent eye-contact, and wake up the next morning, and you would discuss the same dream, you knew that there was little difference between you and him.
I've dreamt of storms, I've dreamt of sound.
I've dreamt of gravity, keeping us around.
Eventually, she returns, her knock on the door gentle and meek, her call of your name even more so. Turning your head to her, you give her a blink and motion for her to lay back down beside you. She knows there's something wrong, but she understands that you don't appreciate constant inquiries. That's one of the reasons you decided to hold her hand in the first place. You get like this sometimes. It's usually in silence, when your mind runs. Maybe you're quiet and seemingly apathetic, but even you have an imagination, even you conjure up memories, and even you have feelings. And even you can't stand to be alone. That's why you wrap your arm around her shoulders, and pull her close, because he might not be here, but at least she is. At least you like her, at least she's there.
I've slept in the darkness, it was lonely, and it was silent.
Turning to face your girlfriend, you give her an examination. She is beautiful, with a nice facial structure, and straight teeth, and soft lips. Just like you. Those soft lips meet yours, and weakly, you kiss back. Your heart feels empty, and it doesn't fill with some type of sweet air you initially would get at one point. Instead, your chest seems to plummet. We've all felt that. Yours, however, is prominently reoccurring.
What is this love? I don't feel the same.
Don't believe what this is could be given a name.
Later that night, with her asleep beside you, majestic even in unconsciousness, your blue eyes cease to close. Your brain is still active, and even with the little light streaming from the moon hidden behind clouds, it seems much too bright. Soft skin is illuminated, but once again, it is not the same freckle-covered, acne-scarred skin you liked to look at so much. I am happy now, though, you tell yourself. The consistency is nice. You know what to expect, you know what to say and what to do, daily. There are no complications, like there were with him. In the morning, you'll know she'll be there, fingers dancing across your forehead, as usual.
I woke, you were there, tracing planets on my forehead.
It's not the same though. You're getting older, you have to be steady with your own decisions. What do you want? Like previously stated, the consistency is nice and familiar, but very quickly, it is becoming boring. The small spark you two found in each other's mutual monotonous attitudes has long since faded. Can you keep stringing her along? Can you just forget her like you did him when you matured? She doesn't dream like you do, and he did.
But I forget twenty-three, like I forget seventeen.
Laying beside her, you brush out her hair that doesn't need to be brushed out. You consume yourself with the scent of her Valentina perfume that hasn't worn off since your night out. You kiss her jaw and fit your body with hers.
And I forget my first love, like you forget a daydream.
You've forgotten many before. You've forgotten Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Cartman. You've forgotten those closer, Clyde, Token. You only have so long left.
You can forget Tweek.
And what of all my wild friends, and the times I've had with them...
We'll all fade to grey soon, on the TV station.