FIRST EDITION SIGNED BY FITZGERALD HIMSELF I HELD IT IN MY HANDS AND MY BREATH
I literally whispered “oh my god” in awe
I began journey today and that journey is commonly called College. In total, I’m taking three classes but my third class doesn’t start until October. For now, I only have two classes—College Writing & Intro to Creative Writing. My professor for College Writing, according to previous students, is a bit of a tedious lady. I didn’t believe it when her students called her nit-picky & mean. I’m beginning to see it. On the other hand, my creative writing professor is the opposite. She’s so friendly & open. Her personality is adorable. She seems to be an easy-going person. I like her already & knowing her personality is kind, I’m eager for her class. Well, this is it. The beginning of the end I guess you can say. Wish me luck!
Her name was October. She wears funeral dresses underneath big hoodies. And if you asked her why, she’ll say she always wanted to look pretty when death comes swiftly. She has brown-emerald eyes, almost like a murky pond. She reminds you of peculiar dolls on old town stores. With her cherub face and lollipop smudge tongue. The mismatched knee-high socks and ballet shoes. The sparrow tattoo peeking out her nape, the remembrance of losing a mother she never really knew. That half-smile she does, when a song plays ironically after an awkward moment. The way she takes her coffee in a rainy day: two cream, three sugar. She prefers birds over cats, but she always loved having a dog. She cries easily on movies and in weddings. Her fingers smell like old library books and lemonade. Her alabaster skin, and how the sun hits it as if there are braille inscriptions waiting to be read. And how your heart pounds the ground you stand, just by staring at her— looking at you. Her lips are succulent strawberry pillows, you’d forever linger. The taste of her, like your favorite song on repeat while you smoke pink smokes in the air. You drown in that beautiful capture and hope in all your might it does not end. The feel of her in your arms while you lay in bed, the serenity you sought untrue but it does exist. And you cry, happy tears streaming your face. And her delicate finger wipes them away, and smile that wonderful, bright smile. And right there and then, the sun should be shamed and the moon could be sold. You had everything you need, right there in your hold.
You need to remember all these things.
Pieces of who she is, she was and she will ever be.
The only bright sun and beautiful gray cloud in your life.
You need to.
You have to.
Because, she is not just a part of your life. She is the life you will always keep repeating. A life well-spent, indeed. To be hers, and her to be yours.
You love her, and always will.
You have to, need to—"
i want to fall in love with someone who would love the fact that I am comfortable enough to share my favorite poems and poets whom spill blood like war growing in their throats.