Wildfire - H.S

55

 Four weeks.

Maybe even five.

That's how much time has passed. Or at least that's what the date on my phone tells me.

Time's become irrelevant now. Even more than it was before but in the most juxtaposing way. Before time didn't matter, it didn't matter if I'd known her for days, or weeks, or months; because it felt right. She felt like life. The good and the bad. She was it for me.

Fuck that. She is it for me.

With her, those quick two minute conversations would turn to hours, which progressed to day long conversations. Discussing our favourite kinds of music, the memories of our childhood that shaped us to become the people we are today, and repeatedly reminding her of every reason that she was, is, the most amazing and beautiful, intelligent and talented piece of artwork that God called a woman I'd ever met.

With her, the laughs we shared and the jokes she whispered would settle simultaneously with the sun. With that being said, something in her would arise, a fire in her eyes and in what would feel like a blink of an eye, the moonlight would shine through the window onto her silky skin as she lay below me, her tousled hair splayed across my bed sheets and in that moment the world really did melt away. Until the morning light would cast a variant of golden orange and blushing pink rays of sunshine on my very own sunflower. Making her glow in the way I always told her she did.

And then we'd repeat our days, the jokes, the sex, the talks, the kisses, the texts, the singing, the cooking and the unspoken loving.

So with her, time didn't mean a thing besides counting down to the next time I'd get to see her, hold her, kiss her. It was charming and heartwarming.

Things change.

Now it's different.

Nowadays, I have to suffer through the dragging minutes, hours, days. Spending nights alone in a bed she used to make feel so warm, staring at the ceiling that once played the backdrop for her breathtaking features while she was on top of me in those special intimate moments that were only ever for us.

Those dreaded nights, bleed into loveless mornings which I often find myself sleeping through in hopes to avoid the thoughts plaguing my mind. Everything is so fucked that time is no longer definable.

It's a torturous, painful blur.

The only true incentive that reminds me about the passing time, beside my pathetic longing for my soulmate, was the magazines. How with each passing publish, a different front page would appear, my name gradually growing smaller and smaller until it eventually disappeared from the headlines.

New stories occurred, bigger scandals and I became old news. Less and less questions were being thrown at me about my chea- I can't even bear to think the word. It makes me sick to my stomach. My incident. And more frequently I was having questions asked left right and centre about when my new music will be coming out.