Betty Luyckx (†05/12/2012)

Mis je, x

Vulnerable Age fourteen is vulnerable. But it's also exciting and glistening. But somehow that leaves us vulnerable. When I was fourteen, I met my best friend. It must have been mid-summer (isn't it always?). I had a stronghold on him. We were easygoing. We were inseparable. We were blind to how vulnerable we were. Strangers would see us and comment on how in love we were. In return, we gave them huge laughs followed by rushed explanations that we were just friends. Always, always just friends. We never needed to be more than that. We had other things to fall in love with, like the air we breathed and the ground we ran on. We were too busy to fall in love with each other. But then the year ended and we moved on, mutually drifting apart as even the best of friends do. It wasn't until that sunny autumn before I started to feel that gentle ache in my core. It's faded since then. To this day I'm not sure what that ache was. Was I nostalgic for the endless days of his friendship? Or was I feeling my first real heartache for a love that I never knew I was lucky enough to experience?

Flowers My friends are like flowers And nothing like flowers All are beautiful All are buds of delight They all have a fire to ignite Fearlessly fight day and night My friends are like flowers And nothing like flowers They don't sway with the wind They breathe it, flip it, dictate it Design it, deliver it and control it My friends are like flowers And nothing like flowers

I was looking westward You were my last two weeks of summer. You were my first two months of fall. Fragments of our days together are all that I can think about now. I got to my friends house and you walked out of the bathroom. I didn't know you, and I didn't know you'd be there. Day at the beach. Sand in your phone. You liked that I stopped on the way back to get fresh vegetables, but you didn't mention it then. Sleepless nights became tolerable when we found each other. More than tolerable. Midnight pancakes. Your hand on my thigh under the table, our secret. Nights that we refused to let end. Followed by days that never wanted to begin. Even the fading sunshine of late August knew. "What are you thinking about?" Honest answers. Always. Then the night that loomed over us became reality. Quiet. Messy tears. Promises. Three hours apart. Texts. Making the most of it. But the most of it wasn't enough. "What are you thinking about?" Honest answers. Sometimes. Returned. Reunited. I picked you up in the rain, my radio playing some love song. Our own movie. Normality. More days and nights spent wrapped within each other's limbs. Yet less within each other's thoughts. I was looking westward. I thought you were too. But you were looking eastward. Weren't you? "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing really."

ettete eztztzetze

Je me souviens de notre jeunesse et de notre séjour au Conquet (Bretagne) pour nos 18 ans. Met mooie herinneringen,Kris.