Even the brightest stars die.

I've been thinking about friendships. Recent and ones from my past. We make promises even now that our friendship will never end. I think back on my past friendships and how close I was with my friends. I would of given my life and various organs and possibly a cousin for them. Now I don't talk to half of them. Don't get me wrong, I've never had a friendship end badly, I would still give my life for all of them, but we fell out of contact. Time has separated us and that friendship we had is just a memory now. What's left is awkward conversations that go like:

"Hi."

"Hi."

"So how are you?"

"Good, good, and you?"

"Fine fine. Been really busy."

"Well that's good to hear. Listen I have to go. Talk later?"

"Yeah, ok."

"Alright bye."

"Bye."

and usually that "talk later" is the same conversation just a few weeks, to a month, to a year later. I love them dearly and wonder how things ever got to be this way. I remember promises of never leaving each other’s side, always being there, getting grey haired and old and watching kids/grandkids together. Is it because of those promises that it's so difficult to reconnect? Because we possibly feel guilt for letting each other out of sight for so long. It soon just becomes easier not to even talk when it used to be we would share everything. An old friend of mine by the name of Megan Thorne said something to me once. It still rings in my ears as I wonder about her now. You see I moved away and everything was good for a time till she moved as well and she fell off the grid. I miss her terribly. She told me once"

"I believe, you are friends with a person until the point you have learned all you can from them and visa versa. Once that is happened you go your separate ways always grateful for the lessons but knowing sadly you will never return."

Maybe she was right. Maybe these relationships only last until you've learned all you can. Holding on any longer can make the friendship turn sour. Friends becoming enemies.

I like to think that no matter where one travels they can always return. Yes it will be different and the road is never the same but a bond once shared can't be broken. Not by time anyways. That the bond you once shared can always be shared again as long as both are willing. Who knows? I miss them all. My friends, those who have touched me, taught me, I loved them as family and in return a bond was created. I won't ever forget them and hopefully one day I will meet them again when we are old and grey, experiences had and lives lived. We can sit back watching little ones play making friendships that we share ourselves, sipping sweet tea, and telling stories. Reminiscing on past adventures and just being friends again. Maybe once all is said and done the fable of life is just that people are gone. Maybe they will always be there and when your old and grey time will bring them back to you. Just maybe.

As I Promised

It all looks so picturesque. The oak trees that dot the city. The buildings seem to hold their own history. Everything so neat, so perfect. I know the true story behind this perfect picture. The smell of blood and alcohol mix with the smell of the humid perfumed air.

It was 1920, the world seemed to be trying to grab life before it slipped away. She was the most beautiful creature God ever thought up. She flouted between the oaks like a dancer, her golden hair and pale complexion gave her the appearance of a ghost. She was attending the university as a music and theater major, an angel among demons. Sylvia Reynolds. Born 1901 to two proud cane farmers. An angel, a wonder, a lover, my world. Died March 8^th 1920 only 19 years old. Slaughtered on the very stage that she stole my heart.

I was the ebony surrounded by ivory, only allowed to clean after others. From my worn work boots to my dreaded hair, I didn’t belong. And yet she didn’t mind. I was working late one night, cleaning up the auditorium after the theater department’s première of Les Miserable. I wasn’t even half way done with picking up the trash the audience left behind when she came upon the stage. Her bare footsteps were heavy from growing up as a farmer’s daughter. I turned to see and she smiled at me. Without warning she began to sing. Her voice was so pure I had stopped everything just to listen. The glorious music stopped and she giggled running off, returning with a script. “Come here, little finch. Come sing with me.” Her voice echoed through the auditorium. I spun my head, looking for someone else, even though I knew I was the only other one around. “Don’t be scared little finch, I bet your song is beautiful.” Sylvia said smiling. Hesitating, I dropped my trash bag and scrambled up to the stage, joining her. “My name is Sylvia Reynolds. I’ve noticed you for a long time now. What is your name?” I blushed like a fool and looked down at the script. “Brianna Lareaux.” I replied with a small squeak. “I beg your pardon miss but I can’t read.” Sylvia smiled and leaned towards me brushing my hair behind my ear. “Mrs. Brianna Lareaux you are gorgeous and I shall teach you this song, no reading needed .” She was so close to me that my heart had leapt into my throat. I began to blush and then it happened. She touched my chin softly with her hand and our lips touched for the first time. It seemed to last forever. She taught me a song called The Confrontation. All I remember of the song is the first line. “Valjean, at last, we see each other plain.” We saw each other plain and it was perfection.

After that night I didn’t see Sylvia again for weeks. It was torturous, but we found our way back to each other again. We couldn’t be seen talking, let alone kissing, or I would be fired and she would be kicked from the university. We found ways though. I started to make her home my own, embracing each other in the night, and rumors had begun.

It was one year after that faithful night in the theater. She was playing a nun in the newest play. After the performance they came. I tried to protect her but one of the men broke a whiskey bottle over my head. I woke up to find my angel dead in a pool of blood. The smell of alcohol and blood drifted in the air. A note laid beside my angel’s head that read ‘Burn in hell, abomination.’ The police shrugged in off, calling it a robbery gone horribly wrong.

We had loved with a love that was more than love. I alone see the illusion slipping, the demons that roam the streets of this once beautiful city.

For my love, for my Sylvia, I live on.

I live on.

Yep it probably sucks but that's what I get for writing while half asleep. Based upon nothing real, I hope. The fable of life is thinking tv isn't a distraction. Peace.