when i was with them (a nameless love of mine), they didnt feel fifteen.
they felt older and lovable, making it impossible for me to fathom the immaturity that showed itself at times. i thought fifteen was something – it was my fault for thinking that everyone should have their life together by fifteen.
i felt mature when i was fifteen and it’s only now, with time and perspective, that i realise how i was the pathetic one and they were just as a fifteen year old should have been.
i always expected so much – look a certain way, behave a certain way, and now that i look back with the luxury of hindsight, i wish i had loved them for who they were because fifteen is all that doesn’t last…
you’re ~supposed~ to be growing out of your childhood clothes before replacing them at fifteen, your mum is ~supposed~ to buy your underwear at fifteen, you’re ~supposed~ to find stupid things funny at fifteen. fifteen is comically young.
oh well, that’s years ago. they are not fifteen anymore. they wear adult’s clothes and fragrance now, but they are all the things i loved, without the beauty of their childhood purity.
and now i wish they were fifteen again.