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To The Person I Always Write About

How do you write about someone you love?



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"If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die." —Mik Everett

Oh the irony, I'm writing about writing about you. Indeed you haven't died in my thoughts, not even a bit, not even at all. I'm not a writer and you're no longer my lover, but I remember someone once said that "writers are not sad; all sad people write." And indeed I was sad. You took the life out of me and now I'm left with tears which I have replaced with words.

You were my greatest and worst love, my high and low, my summer and winter, my day and night, my pain and relief. You were both an exaggeration and an understatement. You were everything at once and nothing at all at the same time. We were nothing in between, we were anything but an average love affair. Our romance burned the brightest and froze the coldest. It's always up there, at the extremes, at the peak, at the epitome that my heart bursts and my mind implodes with superfluous thoughts of you and I could not help but write about you like how Shakespeare wrote about how parting is such a sweet sorrow. 

As I write you down, the friction between my hands, the pen and the paper becomes so intense as if I'm about to set it on fire. You were just so breathtaking as I look at you beside me. You had your hair tousled in a quiff, your soft skin reflects the battle between shadow and light, your eyes were lethargic as you caress my face like I'm your only safe haven. The moments that we shared though only for a short amount of time, cost me inexhaustible amount of writings from ripped back pages of my notebook . 

I don't know how to stop but I want to. It's so addicting that if I were given a penny every time I write about you, I would be a millionaire. Every time I hold my pen up, it's taunting because I started jotting down our could’ve beens, our what ifs and our used-tos. You take up my mind so much that it stings at the mention of your name, which seemed to be etched in my brain now like a tattoo. You have instantly become an automated memory I remember the moment I wake up and haunts me before I go to sleep. You have become a catchy lyric from a song that I caught myself singing along to the entire day. You were just so sensational to me, a phenomenon that I felt the need to record.

The way I write about you became worse when you walked out of my life. When you broke my heart, another set of words came to life.You were a neverending inspiration. You were like a living, breathing Augustus Waters and Edward Cullen, a walking New York Times best seller right before me.

Isabela Secillano is 18 years old.

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