The Boy Who Had Everything


The way my name curved on your lips sounded like you wanted to grow sunflowers in the spaces between letters. I prayed when you watched the sunset you looked for me. Maybe you would see a bit of me tangled up in shades of lilac and peach.

For me, you were in everything. Things that didn’t seem to have charm before suddenly did. Unwillingly, you had me giving crumbs of my heart to crooked trees, tiny flowers growing in between the cracks of the cement and song lyrics.

You taught me they always mean something. You would say, “If you listen closely enough, you’ll hear their heart.” I didn’t understand what you meant until you sang along to your favorite song in my passenger seat. I heard it. You belted out gloriously clumsy notes, and it was the greatest song I’ve ever heard.

The day came where your eyes glistened with big, swelling tears and you said you loved me harder than anything you’ve ever loved before. That was hard to believe. I saw the way you loved the world and it loved you back.

The sun played like a child in your amber-colored hair, and the midnight sky was forgiving. It would wrap you in blankets of stars and the people—that was the best one. Every single person in your presence gawked at your heart and how it was worn so intentionally. They envied and adored you.

You wondered why so many people would smile at you, but my love, it was to see your smile light up the air between two strangers. You were radiant and didn’t even know it.

The day you left, you took every drop of sunlight and every bit of breathable air from me. I realized those miraculous adventures were to pioneer through my soul and came to find you were the roots of every living creature in it.

I can’t tell you what I did wrong. I loved you with all I had. Maybe my heart was not capable of the love yours was. Maybe I didn’t interest you enough. Maybe I was not enough for the boy who had everything. I guess that makes sense now.