Ordinaire

Ordinaire.

That is all I am. I'm neither a famous writer, nor a living legend. You're not an environmental lawyer, nor are you a saint. You once told me to be what I was born to be. Then you suddenly left me. I had always thought that part of who I was to be, was to be part of you.

You spoke of dreaming nights and working days. We would talk about how sweet life would be when our dreams became reality. You wanted the world. You would care, and create a better life for all humanity. You wanted to be a savior, a hero. You wanted to be all you can be. I wanted far less. I wanted you.

So maybe what struck you more were the conversations and my open ears. You rambled on for hours, speaking to the empty halls and open fields we frequented. You never noticed my light glances and empty smiles, or the way I looked you over from head to toe, my arms numb from holding up myself atop the wet grass or cold concrete. You would utter blasphemies under your breath, and paint superimposed slogans on side streets and unfrequented walls. You truly were a bipolar irony.

As you fell to the ground, exhausted from your artistic flaunts, hands shaking from hours of precising a spray can, I watched as beads of sweat rolled down your face. It's hot, isn't it? You took your shirt off and hung it on your shoulder. I watched as bead per bead rolled down from chest to waist, and at that moment, I hungered. You turned to me and said that art is merely a raw form of revolution. You. You are my frustration. This. This is my revolution. Did you ever stop your words and listen to what I refused to say?

I loved you, even when you were nothing more than an obscure anarchist.

(What?!?!? Mic wrote that!?!??! ewww!?!?!?) I know right?