You said it was my sigh
one of desolation, dissent,
that prompted you
that ubiquitously grey day,
to place your soul on that frigid, wooden bench
at a bus stop of all places,
right beside mine.

You made a comment
where was I going,
dressed so sharp and solemn,
with a distinct aura of resignation,
and startled from my reverie
the fog was blown from my mind,
by you, so cool and clear.

You tell me now
that you had no real reason
besides perhaps a distant curiosity,
to sit by me in the brisk twilight.
But as I boarded the bus,
not far behind,
I planted myself right next to you.

It was then you claim you knew,
that the rest was history.

Every day
some part of my subconscious is wondering at
human beings odd, acquired habit
of filling silence.
mistaking something valuable as a awkward mistake to be
eradicated, fixed, filled.
while at the opposite end of the spectrum
is those who value silence.
feel undeniable annoyance
at those who throw their peace away,
mistake the definition of silence for a lack of,
and not a gift.
Sitting in any class,
their will be two mindsets.
Two musings constantly buried in the subconscious
of two very different types of people.
one will bypass thinking,
instead flinging words out
like they were born without the space between that split second when something flits into a mind
and when that thought bursts out.
The other thinks, dreams, plans,
and doesn't stop.
If someone were to describe me,
their first word would be
silent.
the bane of my existence.
I'm not silent in my mind,
Everyday, full fledged conversations flood my thoughts.
Some reply's that will never be spoken, never absorbed by the shocked ears of the extroverts surrounding me.
Thousands of mad little dreams,
that thinking about five minutes later,
put my sanity into question.
The only dilemma is
i haven't spoken a word.
A problem for others,
a jumbled mess of escape and frustration for me.

Science explains life as a series of reactions.
Some are inevitable.
Some are just chance.
Science is supposed to be a explanation,
But somehow,
Impossibly,
Mabye just because I am me,
Science has failed me.
That day in 7th grade was just a fleeting feeling
Or so I thought.
A crush is just that.
A confusing, scattered mix of feelings, that normally,
Science could explain.
Dialated pupals,
Normal.
Fluttering heart?
Normal.
Flushed cheeks?
Still normal.
This is what science explains.
Perfect sense.
But what about what it can't explain.
This little fleeting feeling can
Turn a normally sane person into a aparent lunatic .
Turn a single word into what seems like a thousand buzzing
Coded messages.
Turn a slight stumble into a worldwide tumble.
That quiet little feeling,
That you told to just go away,
Has apparently decided instead
To just keep growing.
To defy rationality
To blurr the line between just a flutter
And the unknown.
Even after a year of starving that feeling,
And you think, its finally gone
With a mixture of
disapointment and relief.
Just to find out that it was hibernating
And ready to make a comeback.
Why
Do these things
That just start as just a little feeling
Defy science
And turn into what could be described as
Resiliant, controlling,
Exiting,
Odd little feelings turned creature
That seem to have minds of their own
And a twisted sense of humor.
Things that some might Call
the begginings of love.
One of the few,
Or perhaps many,
Things that are truly
*undefineable.

her hands are cold,
her cheeks are sunken,
her bones are brittle,
she is beautiful, pale, icy, and wrong.
her dark glimmering eyes hold secrets everyone glimpses,
but no one has the courage to ask.
her arms are sticks,
her wrists are twigs,
and her fingers are needles.
shes so thin, your afraid she will brake, at the slightest touch.
her parents don't notice, that nothings consumed,
until its to late.
today, this is the goal.
don't eat, don't speak, don't stop.
she's smart.
you cant see the scars,
and anything visible,
is from the cat.
her ankles are shredded,
her shoulders are scratched,
her hips are black and blue.
shes a vision,
a haunting ghost,
a apparition.
her hope is to escape,
escape this dreadful skin,
a prison to her perfection that she knows is hiding just under the surface, so close,
yet so far away.
she wants to be, needs to be perfect,
it feels like she is always so close,
but its never enough.

she can see it, she is not perfect,
and you know she feels it,
deep in her bones,
at the edge of her mind, the tip of her tongue,
the plume of her lips.
and it drives her crazy,
she knows, deep down, that this is not right.
but she cant help it.
it is not a choice,
this is a need, an addiction,
and she cant stop alone.

whats truly sad,
is that we all see it,
we all know, that when she cry's for help,
when she  screams the warning,"i'm fine."
that she is lying.

yet we choose,
we choose,
to believe it.

while its true,
most have a favored feature,
their eyes
glowing with colors,
said to be windows to the soul,
some choose hair,
tumbling down backs,
gleaming with highlights,
and low-lights.
but do these have any real purpose,
other than vanity?
what about brains,
the thing that lets you think,
or your heart,
a literal drum in your chest,
a figurative container of love?
mine is wrists,
delicate, slim, pale,
yet strong,
beautiful, but useful,
what i use to support my hands,
my fingers,
all working together in symphony,
creating music on a guitar,
supporting the neck while the fingers fly,
contributing to beautiful things,
creating poems to inspire,
for others,
or just for me.
they make writing, typing, playing,
possible,
all the while still beautiful.
you never hear someone say
"my favorite feature is my wrists"
well,
now you have,
because if someone ever asks,
i have a unique answer.
right now, my fingers flying as i type,
im making a connection between
wrists and brain,
wrists and heart.
this may seem odd,
but if you understand this rambling,
than consider us friends,
because we are very few.

Their are many ways,
so many,
its amazing,
how many have come to be.
ways to leave,
to go,
to be
released.
I wouldn't want my time to be soon,
but you never know.
If I had a choice,
I wouldn't go by fire,
free as ashes in the wind.
I wouldn't go by water,
finally surrounded by silence,
I've had enough of that for a life time.
no,
I would choose to fly,
I would soar like the birds,
free as the wind,
my last act of defiance against gravity,
the force that is beaten by no being,
the force that pulls waves,
sets the biological clocks of many.
the force that keeps us tethered,
or sets us free.
If I had a choice,
at my time to go,
I would not pass of age,
nor disease,
or accident.
I would fly like the birds,
our difference being
they will fly for their lives,
to live, to be,
while I,
I will walk.
but at my time I will fly, soar, live their love,
for mere seconds.
In those mere seconds,
I
     will
             be
                              **released

First month, first seat change. we were on opposite sides, no interaction. I relish this, i am not a
BOLD or EXTROVERTED person
some might say I am shy or introverted
now that the time has come, I am not ready to change seats,
to take the chance of sitting closer, forced interaction,
I am nervous,
but am calmed with the thought that chances are, we'll be seated even farther apart,
I was wrong.
our elbows will brush, our knees will touch, our gazes will meet.
I hear the words coming out of the teachers mouth,
but  am stunned into silence ,
my whole being shaken,
our names are called,
our seats given.
To some, this may seem silly, immature, an overreaction.
For them, this may be true, in this situation calm, collected, thinking: this is no big deal.
But with dread curdling in your stomach as you snap to,
stumbling to your seat,
this is an earthquake shaking the earth, a volcano spitting ashes,
a panic attack waiting to happen.
and it pounces.
seated, trying not to squirm, to shake, to ****;
wondering what he's thinking, trying not to stare.
he thinks you don't see,
the glances he shoots the short foot between you,
thinks your engrossed in the teacher, the clock, the pencil
any thing but him.
But your any thing but engrossed, you see every shake, gaze,
fell every brush of the hand.
Finally, this long hour is over, the mixture of excitement and torture has come to an end.
As is to be expected, on your way still in has gaze, you trip, you stumble, your face cherry red;
embarrassed, but thankful,
that he doesn't have a class with an even more abundant chance of embarrassment.
over the day,
you forget the way he gazes,
his shy way
different from the others,
the way he's taller,
in a way that makes you feel safe, flushed, happy, even if their is no chance of him being yours.
But then lunch comes,
you sit down,
ready to devour food that can only fill your stomach, not your soul as much as you wish it would, or
could;
but looking across,
you spot him, watching you,
his gaze surpassing the walls of people, as much as a shy person wouldn't like,
is it coincidence that he found the one gap with a view of me?
is he staring at me?
what to do?
with all this questing running your mind,
your appetite flee's,
and so do I,
to my safe haven within the books.
tomorrow, the nervousness has subsided, its over, your over, its done.
but then, on the way to first period,
our paths cross,
glances exchanged,
blushes made.
You know that this is not over, not done,
the time has come for class to begin.
I've tried to forget, to overcome this nervousness, but I've been defeated,
ground to a fine powder of nerves by a crush.
our knees bounce in anticipation,
our pencils tap,
our feet twitch.
time to share the book,
the dreaded closeness.
Finally it happens,
the brush of the elbows.
we both feel it,
the sparks that glow blue,
the cheeks that grow red.
we have been given a gift, a chance,
to overcome shyness,
to create something wonderful.
but to take that chance, to accept this gift means time, courage.
and every day until then,
this tension will be relieved
and i will be a nervous wreck.
We started on opposite sides,
but fate pulled us together, forced a chance.
now we sit close, still tense, still wired,
but strangely happy,
exhilarated,
alive.