[bloody kisses]: 558.Passionate Ballads & Lore.My Empty Prayer

I still remember that night when we came home from the theatre, and you insisted on us making our own. We were so young and foolish, building a giant for with all my blankets and then some, giggling like we knew the secrets to the core of the Earth. We lay staring at my white comforter, polka dotted green. You told me, consistently, our names would become famous, like the artist we’d just learned about, Andy Warhol. It’s amazing how the most painful of memories constantly brag and play amongst your sacred tissues to flaunt its beauty which it only held once before; but still brings a tear to eye. Isn’t it ironic that five years Scott, and you’re still dead, but I feel like I’m going to your house on a play date. What would, could, should have happened? Would we have fallen in Love? But I’m not eleven anymore, and I really thought that was you behind me, all grown up, instead of the creep that were stalking us all night. I thought it was you, felt as thought it was, when he touched my shoulder like you used to and sincerely stated with intention too clear in his eyes that foolish line. “I’m going to be a Warhol someday, I could use an Edie,” he said as he ran his hand across my cheek. To which I replied, “Warhol was a mistake,” and he’d earned a slap. Because you and I both learned the idiocy he provided to earn his name.