What if, the guy from math class; You know the one. The one they had announced so early in the morning, in the schools old, mucky, ugly hall. The guy who wasn't coming back after all, his seat now abandoned, no one seemed to notice. . .
But what if they had? His world had crumbled underneath his "perfect-student" mask. What if I had noticed that the thought had crossed his mind. That the only A+ he could ever give was the blood type hidden in his veins. What if, I too had told him that my mind was once quicksand that dragged my soul into its depth.
That the world thought me a hazard, with each word I spoke, I had meant. That I too was under stress, covered in caution tape and filled with cement. What if I had told him, that people are not poetry. What if I had told him, that I knew he wished to be less awkward, that sweet nothings could roll from the tip of his tongue, that he could even be better.
What if I had told him, that if he was poetry he would be my favorite line. That he was a magnificent word I was yearning to define. That ever since I had seen him my eyes were fixed, he was like a poetry book and I a starving artist who was gruelingly hooked. But people are not poetry, although he would have been my favorite book.
What if I had told him, that instead of poetry he was simply a book. That his book did not have enough pages to cover his happy ending but I was willing to rip out pages of mine to fulfill his. That some of my pages have suffered fires and some are still burning, but if he had wanted the pages to my life's sequel, he could of had them!
What if I had told him that his dull, dirty brown eyes were far better than the deep blue of an ocean. That his eyes hinted at a story that I wanted to read through, they were a fix of melted chocolate when I was looking for something sweet. That he was something mysterious, something I couldn't meet.
What if I had told him that when he did what he did, I swore I saw red in the sky. As if his very blood has tainted the nights sky. That the rain kept on pouring there was no end in sight, when he had laid frozen where there was no light. I wished I could have fought the tiny voice in his head that had told him, "I wish to be dead."
What if I had told him that he wasn't here alone? That we all have been trapped in different hells, no one was against him; It was every man for themselves. Maybe, just maybe, we would both be better.
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