More than a story

This is for the friend of mine who thought the only reason I listen to him is because his secrets are good foundations for the stories I write.

You were never a page I stopped to read, you weren’t even a book. You were a universe full of secrets that took time to come off in layers in a language I could understand. You weren’t an unwritten line or an unscripted scene off a drama you played King as. Your brother was not actually your brother at all. You were more than a character to me. More. More than a name, more than a mark, more than the delegate they called you to be. And for someone who notices so much, you never noticed this? That I listened to you because the words you said made sense to me, and I heard more pain in those words than the masks you were changing unsure which one suited you best. That I saw you for all you were, and not for the flaws you were made to make the best of you. That you were more than a story, more than a play, more than a conference, more than you itself. I watched you walk over thorns you planted yourself so you could pick the roses to heal your wounds and mend your broken heart. I watched you sew parts of you into place hoping I wouldn’t notice how broken you were. I watched you do all this and more so you would have a shield when I asked you questions you only knew how to duck from. You were afraid… of numbers and of the dark. You were afraid of the truth you promised to tell me each time but run away from. You thought we were made of complete circles when you yourself were never complete to start with. You shadowed your words just like I did mine. You were never a story to me, you didn’t come with a plot- twisted or straight. You weren’t as confident as a hard cover or as fragile as a paperback, you weren’t a novel or words dropping off a mind of a tired writer. You were never a story to me. You were a person.

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