Let's try and remember existence. Let's try and forget.
Blue-eyed angel with blond hair and warm smiles. I see you frozen in a snapshot taken on a summer day, with wide blue skies and warm winds promising chaos. Hello. See this flame, feel, burn.
Let's try and remember existence.
Let's write your name at the back of my hands and see how much of it will still be visible after a couple of days, weeks, months. Time means nothing if you're nothing and somehow, still something but you're not quite sure what of. Oh, lucky lucky lucky thirteen; watch him go take my hand my soul (if I ever had one) my heart (if I fucking had one)and walk in silence whispering "no-one will miss me". How deeply untrue for someone who will; who's technically, supposedly, cannot even feel and exist.
But you're here and I'm here and the strike and clang of a Keyblade against wheel-shaped warm flaming chakrams are real; might as well make the most of this dream.
Freeze frame, snap the picture of a forgotten lore.
Let's try and forget.
Watch the flames dancing on my hands. Let's take all of these pictures of you taken on a summer day, with clear blue skies and warm winds promising nothing. Let's take all of them, watch them in their clarity; freeze-framed, snapshots of a memory soon to be unfound. The firm, pristine corners of these photographs are digging through the gloves of my hands and threatening to rip right through this shell. Oh lovely lovely lucky thirteen. Watch the flames dancing on my hands and burn burn burn your faces in these distant photographs of a certain when, a certain where; and still I'll see your face in every blond, in every blue-eyed kid. Despite the fact that currently you're ashes on my hands from fucking photographs. Fucking photographs that won't bring you back, but keep you so near and far anyway.
Hey. Let's go meet in the afterlife. Perhaps, then, I'll be able to tell you my name, ask if you got it memorized, and then ask for your name again. Perhaps the afterlife maybe not as bad as we think of it, or try not to think of it, in this flat and dull nonexistent life.
But just because you have an afterlife...
Your name's gone from my hands. I hold your ashes in my palms, savoring grey misery before my eyes. Oh, lucky lucky thirteen; on where you are right now, where you're in, hopefully you dream of a flurry of dancing flames and green eyes that once, unknowingly, begged you to stay, because emotions are flighty and beyond my reach and cannot be trusted.
Lucky lucky lucky number thirteen.
...squeeze a dozen emotions and unsaid words and "what the fuck if" moments in the time it takes for a Nobody to put his whole being to an attack, and freeze frame. Snap the picture of my final dance and watch me fall to the ground and go like candlelight blown.
...I think I saw