I'm beating myself up today with regret
I woke up suddenly realizing that I never noticed
In the moments I had and the time I spent with her
I never noticed her shirt

I never noticed the way it clung to her like sad sultry poem
Or the way it slipped off her arms like cold raindrops
And the way it cusped to her neck as I wish I could

During the time that I spent crying to her
And speaking to her soul and feeling her eyes
Praying that the time between us wouldn't end
I let that giant piece of her slip right through my mind and my fingers

I never noticed that shirt she wore on that day in that moment of time
And now I will never see it the way it needed to be seen like it did then

Maybe I'm a cat
With 9 lives
Cutting off number 8
I could have gone so much sooner
But luck has spared me
Although I'm not exactly sure if that is good or bad

I hate how I can remember every little detail. That makes me obsessive…doesn’t it? That’s one thing I don’t understand about our society; we’re always trying to be normal. We want…confidence for example. We want confidence and if we don’t have any we automatically have selfhate problems, but if we have it we become obsessed. Does anyone here really know the true definition of obsessed? Because I would really like to know, really. Alright, then answer me this, why is it always negatively understood? Is it all that bad that I know the exact moment when she is going to fix the undone bow on her left shoe because I can see how it has been eating her up inside for the last five minutes? But, she would never in a million years stop her speech to us to fix the undone bow on her left shoe. Is it all that bad that I know that she has been wearing those shoes for the past thirteen days and the bow came undone on the third? I know that she has a freckle right on her right jawline even though it’s small and not that noticeable at all. But, I noticed it. That makes me a freak, doesn’t it? And in addition to that, I am completely aware of her breath and the amount of time it takes for her to breathe in from her great, pretty nose and breathe out once again. I am completely aware of the way she always picks at her medium-length oval squared nails when she talks. I am aware that she wears two rings on her right hand, one on her *******, one on her ring. I know that she swears quite frequent actually, but catches herself every now and then replacing the cuss with a letter. You know something, I may be obsessed. I may be a freak and I may be crazy. But, no one else in this world has the privilege of knowing this woman or appreciating her as I do. Because no one ever took the time to notice the undone bow on her left shoe.

The best thing about life is not living.
Nor loving.
It’s forgetting.
Forgetting the sadness and the pain and everything in the world that has ever left a scar on your soul.
And for awhile.
Life is bearable.
And you can sing and dance and laugh and smile and mean it.
It’s real. The happiness is real.
And when you glanced at the scars there was no haunting memory.
You could pull your sleeve down and enjoy the breeze in your hair.
And I remember those days when I forgot the suffering.
But, somewhere along the line I could no longer forget.
A trigger of some sort.
I slipped into the realization that I was living alone in an eclipse.
I slowly realized that my songs and my smiles were fake.
And as I glanced at the scars there was a throbbing memory that tempted me.
So, I pulled my sleeve up and watched my world unravel yet again.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if my fantasies came true and we were together. I wonder how we would spend our days.
I’d wake up in the morning to see your face on the pillow next to me. To see you wrapped in the cream linen sheets
the comforter fallen to the floor.
To hear the rising song of our alarm and to have
you reach your arm over
slamming the top and turning back to me with a defeated smile.
I wonder
what it would be like to force myself to get up from that bittersweet moment and put on my blouse and skirt and
get ready to face the day.
Always asking myself
why
for the perfect day would be to stay in bed all day next to you.
I wonder
what it would be like if you cooked me breakfast with smiley face pancakes and a tall glass of oj. And the delighted smile on your face as I compliment your apron.  
And to see you drive. The wind blowing our hair from the windows
cranked down.
Your sunglasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of your nose and
your hand gracefully placed on the top of the rolled down window.
Running your fingers through your hair and me wishing to do the same.
The music softly playing in the background making the moment seem more and more unrealistically perfect.
Maybe we’ll shop in those trendy villages like blue back square.
Just walking the streets together, not really even entering any stores. Just walking.
Pointing out interesting things in the windows.
Maybe we even touch hands for a short moment
and if I’m lucky
our fingers intertwine
and it seems casual to you
unawkward
natural.
Maybe we'll go to dinner and we just talk over pointless subjects and a flickering candle.
Then I don’t know what.
Maybe we walk again.
Under the night sky.
Seeing your beauty in glimpses of the city lights.
Maybe it starts to sprinkle maybe not.
We laugh at a pointless joke.
I love your laugh.
I love your smile.
I see your crisp blue eyes as we walk past a neon sign outside a dull bar and I realize that I love them more than I could fathom.
They look into me and see every little thing about me.
The good. The bad. My fears. My past.
I can sense that. And I can sense that you understand.
That you get it.
I realize that those eyes are the purest and most beautiful eyes on the planet.
Maybe I feel the need to tell you that.
Maybe after we laugh and smile we both realize that this is the moment that happens in movies. The one where they realize. The one where they fall in love.
The moment that happens after dinner and drinks by the streetlight’s corner.
In a hip city of artists and thugs.
Like us.
Exactly like us.
And we realize that we must follow through with the movie.
Follow through with the feeling of realization.
And then maybe our laughs and smiles drop
not completely, not seriousness, just pause.
And then maybe we look into each others eyes and slowly slip.
Run my fingers through your silky blonde hair
heads lean in.
I feel your lips against mine
I am truly happy.
I want to stay there in your arms forever.
We pull a part for a second
Catching breath
Opening eyes
You smile
And that is what I live for.

And I find myself seeing everything pertaining to her.
The sunset on seagreen waves reflects off the sand like her creamy white skin and ice warm eyes.
Some stranger’s smile in the park seems to glisten just as hers does when her rosy blood-drained lips spread so even.
A character from the TV screen seems to match her perfectly perfected pitch or create the same unthought delicate gesture that is more graceful than the ballerina’s pleat.
And I think maybe if I fill the utter corners of my heart and soul with these minute details of her mere existence I will become closer to her.
Closer to grasping her heart and her hand.
Closer to holding her soul and her face with mine.
But, it has occurred to me that no one person in the world can symbolize this woman.
No person in the world has her beauty and her rhythm.
And I can try all I can to be with her. Even when she is right next to me.
But, I know that I will never have her.
Because this woman cannot be had.