Words about El
I found all of the small notes she left on random pages in my notebooks. The ones she hoped I would find while our hearts beat at the same pace. While our blood and sweat came together, making painters across the world faint.
I found them all and put them in a pile along with the book of things I wrote for her. Things I wrote for her, while she was telling me that I didn’t write about her enough and that she could never be as beautiful as all the others that peppered the pages of my memory.
She took the part of my life that I loved the most and turned it into something I hated. Something that made me feel guilty for creating things that never existed, and never will. The words that I used to write, stopped growing. They ceased to exist as I tried my hardest to write about her and only her.
I can’t think of another human being that had their own book written by my hand.
But her selfish and impatient nature made it something mandatory and forced. Something I couldn’t feel or see or even have. Writing words about El would never be good enough, no matter how much blood I mixed with the ink.
So I took the pile of her notes and the book she would never read and I burned it in my backyard. Under the maple tree that reminded me of her. Because the leaves would go pink and orange and purple and amber during autumn, reminding me what it was like to sit under something so beautiful and impossible to define.
I hope the ashes sink into the roots and rot the tree from the inside, just like she did to me.