Loading...
The Darling Boy in ItalyLoading...
Jaidyn RileyLoading...
He wrote me letters of gold that summer. Writing words of wealth with every stroke of his pen. The way each word curved and flowed in fresh black ink . The way how his penmanship was so delicate the ink wasn't even strong enough to bleed through the paper. As he had stated to me before I left with my parents in Italy ... "they were every word I didn't have the time to say to you" . And though the letters may seem like thousands on the Parchment, it still was never enough.It's unfortunate no one would ever see them but me . No one, but I, remembers that darling boy in Italy.
It pains me that no one remembers the way his lovely chocolate brown hair fell in cute curls on his face. No one recalls the way his eyes shined emerald green in the sunlight that topped Italy's rooftops. His olive Italian skin. In the boy's eyes were a thousand green fields, with a thousand sentences that were buried right beneath the surface. The way his hands fell at his sides, or were tucked behind his back when he stood.He radiated confidence. And the way he always walked with his head up made me smile. He was a Urethral young man. A roman god if the time was not so modern. I could go on for ages about how perfect he was at first glance. He was polite, and he was kind, but he had his own darkness. A darkness darker then black, that not even god could pull him out of. In front of others, greed flooded his blood, and sadness pulled at his fingertips. His veins wrapped with blood red anger, and in his head obtained novels of knowledge, I couldn't even dream of. Although, He wasn't good at speaking what he wanted. As I watched him talk to many people , most words felt almost.. pre- written. . It was almost as though he was a puppet of his father, and his father was the puppeteer. Pulling at his sons strings, slowly tearing and shearing his son's being shard by shard. The father was always speaking words of ignorance ,as to shield himself from the reality of his life . His father was a deeply corrupted person, and it showed like candle light in the dark dark dusk-ness of the night. His siblings started to take after him too , and I couldn't blame them. Their mother was in a grave not just 10 feet away from the Manor. No flowers, no joy, nothing. Just a rock engraved with a name that had long-since been forgotten. Nothing about it spoke love. Nothing.
Although, I knew the second I was alone with the father's son, he was much different from his father, and his siblings. He was much kinder when not around others. I told the boy when he was around me, he didn't worry about having to please people so much, but he just shook his head and laughed a pained laugh. His heart hurt in ways I could not see, but I rather felt when he spoke to me. His father had ruined him in ways that were beyond me. He was a book with too many torn pages.
He was absolutely beautiful, but broken. Up from his curly brown hair, to his coffee brown shoes. He was heaven and hell on a golden platter. No matter what it was, I loved him, but I had to go eventually.I knew things weren't going to last, so When I parted my lips from his that one last time, a tear fell from my eyes, for I knew I could never give him what he deserved. No one could. No one could save that darling boy in Italy. Not even himself.
It pains me that no one remembers the way his lovely chocolate brown hair fell in cute curls on his face. No one recalls the way his eyes shined emerald green in the sunlight that topped Italy's rooftops. His olive Italian skin. In the boy's eyes were a thousand green fields, with a thousand sentences that were buried right beneath the surface. The way his hands fell at his sides, or were tucked behind his back when he stood.He radiated confidence. And the way he always walked with his head up made me smile. He was a Urethral young man. A roman god if the time was not so modern. I could go on for ages about how perfect he was at first glance. He was polite, and he was kind, but he had his own darkness. A darkness darker then black, that not even god could pull him out of. In front of others, greed flooded his blood, and sadness pulled at his fingertips. His veins wrapped with blood red anger, and in his head obtained novels of knowledge, I couldn't even dream of. Although, He wasn't good at speaking what he wanted. As I watched him talk to many people , most words felt almost.. pre- written. . It was almost as though he was a puppet of his father, and his father was the puppeteer. Pulling at his sons strings, slowly tearing and shearing his son's being shard by shard. The father was always speaking words of ignorance ,as to shield himself from the reality of his life . His father was a deeply corrupted person, and it showed like candle light in the dark dark dusk-ness of the night. His siblings started to take after him too , and I couldn't blame them. Their mother was in a grave not just 10 feet away from the Manor. No flowers, no joy, nothing. Just a rock engraved with a name that had long-since been forgotten. Nothing about it spoke love. Nothing.
Although, I knew the second I was alone with the father's son, he was much different from his father, and his siblings. He was much kinder when not around others. I told the boy when he was around me, he didn't worry about having to please people so much, but he just shook his head and laughed a pained laugh. His heart hurt in ways I could not see, but I rather felt when he spoke to me. His father had ruined him in ways that were beyond me. He was a book with too many torn pages.
He was absolutely beautiful, but broken. Up from his curly brown hair, to his coffee brown shoes. He was heaven and hell on a golden platter. No matter what it was, I loved him, but I had to go eventually.I knew things weren't going to last, so When I parted my lips from his that one last time, a tear fell from my eyes, for I knew I could never give him what he deserved. No one could. No one could save that darling boy in Italy. Not even himself.