It's been one week,
since I told you,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since you told me,
anything,
at all.

How soon I forget,
what it's like,
not to be,
at a person's disposal.
How quickly I remember,
that remembering is,
a bother.

Easy folk enjoy easy listening.
A magnet that draws sound.
Vibrations of different magnitudes.
But visually, all the same:
On a large enough body; what proceeds:
A ripple on water's edge.

Beauties and questions evoked.
Memories that hold vehemence.
Open ears that trickle red.
An eye for an eye.
A tooth for a tooth.
A *** for a ***.
Sour taste, before I spit.

After all that said,
so it goes:

She is left feeling discontent,
because her friend left her behind.
A friendship no longer pragmatic,
left her detached and unkind.
After one move against her,
inadvertently made her the bad guy.

Assimilated ignorance was transferred,
leaving her with raging eyes.
Now a maniac, but once shy.
It started the day she was betrayed,
and her friend left without goodbye.

Friendship turned into a frivolous demise.
She never thought of compromise.

She will always be left on her own will.
Only living each day with empty glare.
While she sits cynically by her window sill.
Reliving old days, and perfecting her stare.

It's been one week,
since I told myself,
nothing of importance.
But one week,
since I've asked questions,
and have realized that,
in your twenties,
you are partial to saying 'No.'

Implicit No, god-forbid a subtle yes.

You know yourself.
You want to know yourself.
You hope that you know yourself.

And,
In the scheme of it all,
the ***** shopping mall,
the empty alleyways,
**** and trash,
looking down at laced shoes,
transcends society's social boundaries.

Those little moments at the end of the day,
that make you smile,
are the reason you should not become frustrated.
It would be the same,
as letting a long car ride ruin a vacation.
Thinking short-termed has never led to outstanding goals,
only temporary satisfaction.

Life is short,
but it is long enough to learn how to pick battles.
There are far more important things to worry about,
than ill intent with loved ones,
or even strangers.

If someone steps on your shoes,
let it go.
Use that frustration to better yourself,
and when you can,
buy better shoes,
and walk a mile in them.

To whom it may concern:

Is that appropriate? Have I made this too impersonal too soon? Nameless lover, what do I call you (thee?) these days? I never knew that the letter M extended to the word “who” could be so detrimental.

II
Nameless lover,

Have I forsaken myself? Is love without means? Can I live within my means? What does a broken heart mean? Does that mean, that I’ve seen, the other side of the fence thought green? Maybe I’m in between.

III
My rose,

As I comment on your perfection, I realize that this is a love thought wild. To be more specific: Wilde. Words spoken on soft lips, I tell you you’re perfect. To which you reply, “I certainly hope not. That would leave no room for development.”

IV
Dear friend,

I’ve written this letter countless times. From beginning to end, the words I write are the ones that keep my tongue tied. Is it not possible for me to let myself be intimate? Am I a man carved from stone; indestructible, but kept below the ocean waves, which conceals my longing to wash up on shore? Resuscitate me. For as much as you take my breath away, can our parted lips refrain from talk, and is it possible for us to speak in tongues? I look at your delicate hands, and see my fingers enclosed in yours. I glance at the small of your back, and see my hand placed upon it, guiding you through the crowd. I see your eyes close as I kiss your forehead. I see us.
Am I selfish? Are you? Is this a misinterpreted love?
No. No, this is a love that I welcome you to share. This is a love that is impossible to embellish.

V

There is this misplaced honesty. To clarify: An honesty, that isn’t untrue, but spoken through hormones. That is what initiates complications with the opposite ***. Or people develop feelings at the wrong time. Or people never speak their feelings. As much as people like to say that it isn’t a game, it is. *** is ***, but then again, it’s not. Beyond the attraction, it’s realizing how that person changes your life. There is nothing comparable or even remotely relevant to the impact of loving someone and having that love returned. But, to be fair, there is nothing like the look across the room, and meeting a stranger’s eye, and both sets of eyes squinting in mutual thought of lust.
Affection and pain share the same gesture: the squint of an eye.

Closure (Civility)
Sitting across from you, we opened up; philosophy on life, and our personal growth. Our versions of love were discussed, in detail, about young love and what it feels like as you mature; when becoming a better person can sometimes be selfish. It is done with the best intentions, but it still creates tensions that become even the more overwhelming.
The conversation was very honest.
That’s what a friendship brings, I suppose.

Inevitability (Afterthought)
There are always signs. People don’t always see them because they are afraid of becoming vulnerable. They know assumptions can come with the worst confrontations, but curiosity will eventually eat at you until your perception of people will change. You start to think trust has as much value as a fixed mortgage. The problem is that you can’t restart in life. Nothing is as simple as it might seem. Human connection and companionship will be the hardest expedition you endure in life. It is only something you can learn over time. If you haven’t felt a million emotions at once, you haven’t been in love. If you’ve never opened your soul to a person, you haven’t been in love. If you don’t know the color of her eyes, you haven’t been in love.
Her eyes are green.

I am not in love, I tell myself. Faint words
do not reverberate, however, I know
that I am very good at fooling myself.
I should feel the vibration,
or so they say.

I am not in love.

Scribbled words running off
loose leaf.
Words left in the margins,
underneath the dotted line.
No Strings Attached
Or so they say.

I am not in love.

My hand on
the small of your back.
The taste of cold.
Wind blows headlines down
the sidewalk.
Adjusting coats and
gloves.
Skin remained covered,
to prevent frostbite,
or so they say.

How much prose
can relinquish this fire,
this intensity, which coincides
with disillusion?
When does an act of grace
become an act of convenience?

I am not in love.

Every once in awhile you find yourself at a crossroad,
or you feel like you've reached a dead end.
Life is hard to handle sometimes, and so are the relationships we hold.
It's very confusing.
Especially when it is between two people of the opposite ***.
The easiest way to explain this,
is that
it is not easy for most people to let themselves be vulnerable.
We all face so many hurdles in life,
trying to attain this goal that is (sometimes) unattainable.
Not all of our dreams will come true.
But that doesn't mean we should lose sight
or become discouraged.
Or so they say.

That is why we are human.
We are willing to make these decisions
and prepare to accept the consequences in doing so.
We don't allow ourselves to take breaks, simply because life does not stop.
We push forward. We strive. Although, sometimes life catches up to us.

We become irritable.
We become confused.
We become tired.

My life: far too much scrutiny.
In the end, I put too much thought into something
that changes my perspective.
Usually a distorted one.
That is why shutting down in a neurotic state is accepted.
A cool down period,
when all the while we know another meltdown is around the corner.

I am not in love.

Ideally, words should have the same
encompassing power.
But seeing as how I can not
determine what works well
for me, I have conditioned
myself to being adaptable.
No rhyme or reason,
will ease the pain
that seems to follow
your name.
And that is why
I repeat faint words.

I am not in love.
She never was.