You confuse me

You twist and evade my memory

But I know you

You've existed in my memory for two years

you're so hard to define

Where are you, Daisy?

Where'd you go?

I know Andrew almost too well and yet

You're so much like me

I'm your narrator

you're my escape

So where'd you go?

Asi, where'd you go?

Why are your blue eyes and red hair all I'd ever wanted to be?

I'll write you until I find you.

Innocent under the tree

Running from your abusive dad and obsessive mother

Court scandals in the palm of your hand

No wonder Andrew fell for you

You never took sh*t from all of them

You knew how to be reckless and romantic and broken and innocent and reserved and

human

you were a beautiful story

a beautiful person 

You're the parts of me most don't see

Does that make me beautiful too?

Am I really you? Just the version no one notices?

Is Andrew just the part of me they see?

The part that's easier to write?

I'm the author and yet you're both the most beautiful part of me.

You all are. 

You always have been.

You and Andy and Tony and Dewy and Ashley and Ginn and Cece and Dexter and Roge and Stella and Sylvia and Charlie and Shadow and Mouse and Thunder and Voice. 

You are mine. 

You are me. 

My writing, my characters, my friends. 

And maybe one day 

One day

I'll be out there for all the world to see

Published

finally 

and then they'll see all of you

all of me. 

I love you all.

They'll love you, I just know it.

I guess to be a writer is to fracture yourself

to showcase little bits of your soul in the hope that others will understand.

Asi, I'll find you. 

I'll write you when I do.