Just like the many escapes I made away from the city prison, I climbed atop the city backyard. I found her standing next to me on the grassy hilltop while watching the riped sun being swallowed by the western skies. With the crisp wind blowing that smelled like baked fresh summer grass, she and I, — we both were melting with time in a grand hue.
‘Why are sunsets so beautiful that it hurts?’ she asked in a melancholic whisper.
In an instant, I looked at her and saw the sunset as twice as beautiful when reflected on those wistful eyes. Watching her looking happy and sad at the same time cut my heart into a thousand bits. And those butterflies I hid for the longest time in there showed up again— and stitched the pieces back up just like that.
‘Because sunsets are like the few beautiful things in life that you can only watch but can never have.’ I responded.
I was hoping that she would hear those unshed tears gushing like waterfalls inside my chest. I was hoping that she would listen so she would hear her muffled name in my every heartbeat. But she just remained so entranced by the orangey colors of that afternoon canvass that she did not even notice how I died that day. How can she not see me when I’m just in plain sight?
Would she ever know that spitting those words is as agonizing as sitting there as just her friend, while she— bleeding over sunsets and I—burning for her?
The Mountain Poet 