KlaSz

There was something about the way she looked at me. It was like the way an artists looks at a beautiful painting they didn't draw. She'd marvel at me. Like I was so intriguing to her. It was as if I made her heart race and her mind wonder. Like she wasn't sure that I wouldn't just up and vanish. It was the way you'd want your soulmate to look at you. Like nothing else in the world mattered, like your soul gives life to their existence.

We talk as if could get those moments back. We act like we are mere moments from the times when you would cry and I would hold you in my arms while you dried your tears on my sleeve and wiped your nose on the bottom of my shirt. The times when I would listen for the footsteps of your heels coming down the halls of our high school, lifting my head at every sound awaiting your arrival. The times when your anger brought your little hands to fist and I'd let you beat on my chest until your anger dissipated. Or the times when you felt like your anxiety was swallowing you whole and I would look you in your eyes and I would do breathing exercises with you to slow your breathing down so you could see that things will be alright because I wouldn't allow it to be any other way. But these moments are more than mere moments away, they are years removed from this present moment. Nothing more than a memory. You're not alright now, you let your anxiety swallow you whole and all I can do it watch. Why when we talk does it seem like time stopped just for me and you and I am taken to that place where I am your protector? Why did we let life get the best of us?