Someday she will write novels about you.
You may become a memory, but she’ll always have so much to say.
How you painted her so many colors all at once.
How she held on too tight while you were loosening your grip.
How she felt more alive than ever while you were losing your will.
Someday she won’t wait anymore.
There will be a nice boy who sweeps her off of her feet.
He will be sturdy, someone who will love her consistently.
It may not feel quite the same, but someday she will grow weary of instability.
Someday living only for tiny moments of joy won’t be worth it anymore.
If you think she’ll stop writing, though, you don’t know her like she knows you.