(no subject)

I stood outside with you, and rain was just beginning to fall. My hair was out, and the Norwest wind blew it across my face, where it stuck to the fresh tear-tracks on my skin. You told me that if you had to take a picture of sorrow, that would be it. It was just after I’d dyed my hair dark, the day after the perversion party. The tart smell of rain on asphalt was in the air, the only light was the glow from a streetlight, and you told me how it shone on my tears. You reached out a hand, and brushed the hair off my face, wiped away the tears. I don’t know how, but you could tell the tears from rain. And somehow that only made me cry more. My legs folded up beneath me, and I sat down on the footpath, the concrete still warm from the sun that day. You knelt beside me, not touching me. You understood. You knew. Eventually, you told me to get up. And I did. We stood, outside your flat, looking at each other. In silence. You held out your arms, and said, “Come here, Mel.” I hesitated, shook, and you just stood and waited. And I threw myself into your arms. You were my best friend. Now you're gone. And I miss you. I miss you so fucking much.