It's on days like these when life is rushing in at light speed
and I am breathing in Carbon Dioxide instead of air.
When the world is unbearable and
I'm stressed from the giant rock of fate.
That I think about you laying next to me
with open heart listening to my soul beat.
Your hand holding mine - pulsing it,
reminding me of the patterns of living and
looking into your eyes and feeling that pain could never exist
when we are looking at starts together
You are the heal, and I love you more than the sun
And I kiss your nose.
But, I miss and hit my empty pillow.

Cakes,
I know I just wrote to you,
but I can't get you off my mind - you live there 24/7,
but it seems today you are running in circles.
I'd like to stop you and kiss your hand and wipe the sweat from your forehead.
People tell me you're a hopeless cause.
I disagree, you are my hope entirely.
But spare me love,
is there a chance for us?
By any means could you possibly even have for me the slightest that I have for you?
Spare me the truth, should I try to shake you from my heart?
(No)                                                                                                                                         (Yes)
Thank god.                                                                                                       I'm sorry, but that's not valid.

Je t'aime,
Bug

If I could, I would describe to you
the hopes I have for life
Not just my own life,
that stretches and shortens like a
worn out rubber band,
but also yours,
where I put every ounce of my positive energy
my hope, my light, is you.
But, neither of our lives are worthy
of any rhymes or words in a poem
I'm not writing about me and I'm not writing about you,
I'm writing about us,
because together we are a song to sing.

I don't believe that such a deed is allowed in human fate.
A made up rhyme cannot fathom the truth as I can you.
No matter the wondrous colors that shine through on a daily basis,
no matter the birds singing in the
autumn leaves,
there is no sun
there is no hope
The birds are singing, but they are
corpses in spring mulch.

I was never aware that everything in this godforsaken world is pretend.
Everything is an illusion,
a time waster,
a sweet dream that may or may not go dark.
Everything is made up by people in lab coats
or philosophers with spectacles
or old men with top hats.
Everything is made up by dreamers and livers and do-ers.
So I can be anything I want
and that is such a beautiful thing.

I have a tendency to block out the unwanted.
It's a survival method mastered since and early bird age.
Mind games do help the helpless no matter what philosophers say.
I believe that everything happens for  a reason,
and too often that reason is a lesson
birthed from bad luck sprinkled with karma with a capital K.
Pain is seductive.
The way it creeps ever so silently and makes itself at home
Uninvited things tend to do that best,
understandably:
Where else are they supposed to go?
I ask myself that question every day because I am homeless.
I have a tendency to block out the unwanted   :   I have a tendency to block out myself.

You told me that your arm was numb and swelled
broken out from the stress of life.
You saw this as a punishment from life's misfortune.
I saw it as an opportunity to hold your hand
and tell you it's going to be ok.
You told me that your lips puffed up and hurt
like heartthrob.
You saw it as disappointment, as you couldn't wear your lipstick.
I saw it as luck:
The perfect moment to kiss you and make it better
without having the red color smeared all over my neck.

Better. Better is a term. A word. A concept.
It could mean something more, I suppose,
but in reality,
                                                                                 everything is what it is
                                                                                 we just want to make it out to be more
Everything is nothing - and we don't wrap our heads around this idea
We can't believe this because:
                                                   If we tell ourselves that everything (even the things that mean the world)
                                                                                                         are nothing

Then we are nothing also
And we cannot bare to be nothing.

If I am nothing than I have no purpose, no reason, no substance.
                                                                                                      If I am everything there will be nothing else
                                                                             Which is worse?
To be a grain of sand
or to be the ocean that smothers every other grain?

Lose lose situations are my specialty...........................................Ah! But, what if you are something.
Just something. That is the thing to be. Smack in the middle
between a ghost and a giant,
life and death

That is where I want to be.
Where I want to spend my days,
and that,
that is improvement.

I told her I loved her
She didn't understand completely how much, then again,
neither did I.
Love is such a cliche thing
overused and abused by false accusations and taudry
romantic comedies.
I'm not sure what
real
love is
but I do know what I feel for her is stronger than Nicholas Sparks and all the red roses in the universe
combined
Yet, all I could say to her glitter face,
All I was allowed,
In the most innocent way,
(For innocent, and as friends, is the only way)
I told her I loved her
And she said
"I love you more"
And I laughed
Because lord knows that is not humanely possible

I very much would like to sip on your soul for the rest of my existence
Get high off your laugh
Hover on all the words you whisper
I very much would like to spend the rest of my life with you
I think that just may be great.

It kills me to say this, but I think you and I are like oil and water.
Despite my longing to decapitate into your molecules and blend into you,
Maybe we weren't meant to mix.
Some times the forbidden-ness creates passion and pride,
and it did on my side.
I would still do anything and everything to dust your rocky shores.
You still are my ocean and everyday you swallow me whole.
But, I heard about this lake where the salt and fresh water collide and make waves.
And I wouldn't mind making waves with you.

i haven't been able to get you off my mind.
not that that's different than any other day,
but i miss you
and i hope you're ok.
sometimes i can feel your pain run through me slightly.
like a wave, sparked by your tears.
and i picture you crying, alone in the world, scared, longing for something for someone,
and that's when i feel it.
i would give anything to make it stop.
to take it away and inflect it on myself.
but then, if we are so connected, and if you do love me as i love you, then you wouldn't be able to escape the pain either.
when you love someone you feel their pain they are going through something you can't save them from
and that kills you inside.
i know there's not much i can do.
and there sure isn't anything i can say.
but, i try to do what you did with me:
hug me and tell me it's all going to be ok.
i didn't believe you. i still don't.
but, your arms around my back felt nice.

and if you are crying right now
swallowed by sadness and sinking in tears
i am sending you every good thought that comes to

mind
it is hard for one to see such a beautiful person

hurt
but you
it kills me.
i would do anything to take it all away, but i

know that nothing is that easy
i am not sure what to do to make it better
i have been there and i know that words are just

letters that are just sounds that are just the

breath moving through two slabs of flesh
and i know they dont make that much a difference

in a foggy mind
all i can think of is to tell you that i love you

each time i am reminded that souls get twisted

and may crack

Get your act together
What are going to do about the science test today?
You’re gonna fail.
Stop thinking that.
Discipline.
I need discipline.
You need help.
Shut up.
Yeah, like that’s even possible.
Your purse has makeup all over it.
So?
It’s ruined.
There’s no Billy Joel song that makes sense now.
This isn’t normal.
Maybe it is.
You’re not.
It’s the little sugar tablets.
They’re making you crazy.
But, if it’s them am I crazy still?
Yes.
Oh.
That *****.
Your life *****.
Hurry up and type.
Shut up.
No.
Please.
Please stop.
I don’t know why this is…
Just shut up.
Help.

I’m sick of this chapter.
I’m sick of science fiction and horror and fables.
I should be able to choose my own genre.
Fantasy.
It doesn’t really work that way.

When someone writes a poem. The poem exists. It doesn’t have a choice.
It has to be read. It has to be printed. It has to be spoken.
Forever.
Until the day the author removes it from the shelf and the binding goes stale.

I was the kid in 3rd grade who would skip to the end of the book to see if the rest was worth reading.
I am that kid.
And I am sick of reading.

Most of the time I don’t feel actual
But it has occurred to me that this is real
I am real
For all I know the moon could be a figment of my imagination
It’s too far for me to touch
It’s too big for me to hold
The moon
sneaks slowly out of the dark every now and then
Its smile can illuminate the world
But, its absence is noticed
The night swallows it whole and only every so often
it is spit out
I imagine the moon gets tired
I know I do

fem·i·nist [fem-uh-nist]
adjective
1. advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.*

I used to be afraid I'd be stuck in a training bra forever.
For awhile I didn't wear one.
My grandmother would yell at me.
I told her I was a feminist.
I didn't know what it meant.
A part of me wishes I could go back*
to that time of AA's instead of DD's.
One less thing to define me.
Maybe then I could be free of the restraints.

Eyeliner seemed ridiculous.
Poking yourself in the eye with an 8 dollar glamor crayon.
Crayola sells them for 15 cents.
Always was cheap - Not the makeup - Not the crayon.
I don't leave the house without it.

I used to be afraid of tampons.
They grossed me out.
They confused me.
I didn't understand how you could stick something "up there"
and walk straight.
I'd be surprised how much it can handle.
Strength. Numbers. Endurance.
But, I still can't walk straight.

I used to be afraid of the boogeyman.
The darkness in the closet.
The monster under my bed.
I was a smart kid.
I knew they were there all along
under the comforter
beneath the sheets
next to my fragile body
stealing my sliced heart
and ******* the rest.

The monsters wear a disguise.
Rubber.
If you're lucky.
Without the water balloon and crossed fingers your stomach fills nine months times its size.
So they say.
I still like to believe it's an old wive's tale.
And I refuse to be an old wife.

I never considered thongs underwear.
I considered them floss.
Why wear one when you could just go bare *** and achieve the same result?
Now I floss regularly.
Hygiene is important.
Clean my mouth.
Well, might as well brush my teeth while I'm at it.

I used to be afraid I'd grow up and couldn't eat Popsicles anymore.
As if chasing after the icecream truck was something prescribed to a little girl in spaghetti straps
******* only her thumb.
Innocence lost.
I don't like Popsicles anymore.
Unless they're cherry flavor.

I am tired of writing of you as if you were an old polaroid photo from 1975.
The kind that fades slowly and turns yellow in an old trunk.
The kind taken of a happy sad girl laughing at her youth which she has kept in a glass bottle ever since she was 13.
That is how I picture you – frozen bittersweet melancholia giggles.
You are my dark little secret, and something tells me a part of you always will be.
But, you are real.
So very real.
In fact, you are the only thing that is real to me anymore.
You are more than what I write of.
You are more than anything.
What I write of is fiction.
The dreams I have of us entangled.
Fiction. Sadly. Fiction.
I will never stop the imagination
the creation
of a “banana pancake good morning” love with you.
Never.
But, what I wrote of was fiction.
Perhaps. Perhaps we just need to change the genre.

They made me read a segment  about who they think I am.
I don't know who "I" is.
"I" gave it a shot anyway.

Biggest fear: Failure...?
In bold.                                  That's me.
Failure.
Perfectionist?                        Yeah, I guess so.
Yes or no?                              Isn't everyone?

Do you tend to forget things easily?
Do you get dizzy and light headed when you stand up?
Are you a perfectionist? Are you a failure?
Are you this are you that?
Are you sad? Are you scared?
.........................................................­.....................................................Yeah, but isn't everyone?

No sweety.

The problem with me is that I believe in souls.
A dangerous belief to say the least.
I feel as if I have lived this life a million times over
The pain is
so routine
so familiar
so real.
It is recognizable.
Quite.
I have been around a long time.
Though: I am not experienced.
Nor am I inexperienced.
I am not young. I am not grown. I am not old.
I never will be.
I am but a mere soul living in yet another tattered body.
A problem in itself.
But, if I am a soul I will exist forever.
And I am tired.

It was him.
He was coming at me
and it was him.
I remember it clearly,
but it’s all a blur.
He reminded me of him.
The way he grabbed me from behind like a ragdoll.
Raggedy Ann.
The look he had in his eyes.
Like there’s no escape.
Like it was time for me to pay my dues.
Pay my rent.
Game.
I feel like a doe caught in the headlights.
I know I’ll never make it across the street.
I know I’m gonna end up as roadkill
or the driver’s main course.
It was him.
Living on.
And he brought back all the things
I have strived to forget.
All the feelings
I have been trying to bury
in the sunsweet earth
since I slammed the door
and swallowed the key.

Strip me of my privileges. The privileges I am unworthy of.
Take them away. What’s the point of them if I’m not even happy.
Take me away.
The undeserving shouldn’t deserve, take me away.

Push me down the stairs. Try to get my head straight.
Don’t help me up. I created this myself; it’s my responsibility to break my fall.
Don’t lend a hand.
My hands are scarred and clammy, don’t lend a hand.

Dissect my interior. Rid me of the wrong.
Slice me up.  I need to cut out the lines that aren’t mine.
Let me bleed.
If I need to see what I’ve done here, let me bleed.

Color me black and blue. My internal bruises from sinking to my knees.
Turn my soul to dark. Destiny is a bitter truth.
Turn it dark.
There is no lightness, turn it dark.

Give me chains that I can see. I’m tired of the invisible ones.
Lock me up if you must. If you can’t bear to look at my swollen eyes.
Throw away the key.
If you must, throw it all away.

Rip up old photographs with me waving in the background. I wasn’t really meant to be there anyway.
Light them on fire. If my existence posed no resemblance to living.
Light me on fire.
I won’t mind, light me on fire.

Watch my pleading soul decapitate. After all, it never really was in one piece.
Tear me apart.
End the misery.
End it all.
That’s all I ask.
Just somehow light me up.

And by this flickering candle.
I imagine you.
Your soft lips resting against the black satin sheets.
An angel.
I see you.
Even in the darkest of the dark bitter corners of my soul
You emerge.
It takes every fiber in my being to stop myself
to stop the longing for me to draw you closer to my heart
But, you are so peaceful.
And how could I disturb such a gentle rest?
So,
For now I guess I'll just have to ignite these old candles
that continue to flicker more and more as the days go on
But, I will light them
Every day
Until, instead, I have you.

You have to have a strong exterior.
Life attacks every day.
Some can handle this constant fight.
And some can not.

Battle wounds swarm the skin.
They come from multiple places.
The world. Others. Maybe you don't know how they came.
But, the scariest are the ones you create
Yourself

Look at the scars. Look at the cuts.
Your body cries tears of blood every time.
Take a good look.
And be reminded of the life you made.
Of the pain you have.
And fear.
Fear it.

These battle wounds will never heal,
For they are not just skin deep.
They penetrate through your muscle and bones.
And attack
Your heart.
It is vulnerable and unprotected.
And all at once it feels the sting
Of the knife
Of the hand
Of the pain
Of the mind.

And all it can do is give you a tear
A salty, wet, tear.
Maybe two.
And that's all you have left.
The tears
The scars
The pain...the reminder
And that's all you'll ever have

You have to have a strong interior.
A strong exterior.
In life.
So, please be careful.
I bruise easily.

I love how your smile lights up the whole room
and how your voice gets chipper in excitement
I love the way your walk jumps when your in a good mood
and I love that look of frustration when you aren't
I love how your eyes get big and your lips purse when you joke
I love your jokes
I love how they always are funny even when you're not trying to be
I love your high pitched sneeze and how I always have this longing to hug you after
I love how you blink rapidly and stand tall...even though you're about 5' 3"
I love how your hugs make me feel at home even when I am so very lost
I love how you always seem so strong and so put together even when you act silly, but sometimes when I look over at you just sitting there I can see how innocent you are and how much you may have hurt
and I have a longing to walk over to you and hold your hand
I have that longing quite often actually

Most of the time I feel I was not meant to be human.
Human's are definite; there's a word for them.
I don't think there's a word for me.
I don't think I'm describable or said.
Although, age is just a number,
And no one has written me yet.

i am most free when i let my mind wander
i dont know exactly
but if my soul were an instrument id be a guitar
and i pray that someone would mend my brittle strings and play my hollow body

I sat there in the darkness of this girl's backyard
I didn't know her that well, but I felt that I should have.
Missed my chance.
What I do know about her is that she was very beautiful.
I didn't know that until she was gone.
It wasn't until the tears were streaming down my face that I realized
She was very beautiful.
It wasn't until I was standing in the darkness in her backyard with a hundred other people who's eyes were red and who's candles were gleaming that I realized
She was very loved
I didn't know this girl. I went to school with her. I saw her in the halls. I heard her screaming in classrooms.
I never knew how much we shared in common - the same family, the same passion for art, the same life.
It wasn't until I heard all the stories people had and all the memories people shared with her that I realized
I loved her.
And it wasn't until my candle got down to the nub to the point where it was burning my fingers to the point where it blew out that I realized
She was gone.

My mother drinks cranberry juice and lemon tea to detox herself.
She says it gives her a clear mind
I drink Clorox
She takes it away.

I cleaned my room a couple days ago.
I never do. I get too tired.
But, ironically, today it is messier than before.
Isn't it always?
You try to fix something and it just bites you in the *** in the end.
Best to just leave it all alone.
It takes too much energy anyway.
Besides, maybe my head was just mean to be messy.

Since when did lighting our lungs on fire and vomiting up our youth become fun.
When did cigarettes and *** become a carnal desire
and **** and ******* a symbol of pure lust.
How is grinding on some sweaty unshaved guy *****.
When did fake ids become the one thing we have on our Christmas list
memorizing the identity of another so we can lose ourselves in stale beer and cheap *****.
When did ***** songs about ******* become the theme song of passionate love.

When did losing yourself become the game of fun.

I have been there
I have been lost
but unlike the rest of adolescent adults,
I do not desire it.

Everyone wants to grow up too fast.
act too old for their own souls.
be provocative and disgusting to show that you know what it all means
to show that you can do it too.
Good for them.

Why they ask. why.
out of all things. why.
does it really help you.
do you realize what you're doing.
who you're hurting.
what you're holding.
why.
why.
why.
do you think if i knew.
if i knew the answer to
why.
i would be doing what im doing.
i would hurt like im hurting.
i would hold what im holding.
this isnt a choice.
why
cant
people
understand
that
why
why
why

i am on a ship
sailing far away
to a place completely different of where we are today
where nothing is forbidden or taken advantage
where you and i are we
and there's nothing that stops the flying arrow or entangled souls
evil and hate wont matter anymore because we are free
adventure and life is the only thing left beyond our love
and there shall always be the wonder if well make it to the next morning
thriving off the little of which we have
but its all we need
though they say the climb is the best part of the win for tis where you hold the dearest memories
i still want to get there now
so i can see your face and kiss your soft pale lips
and you can stroke my hair and whisper sweet words in my ear
holding me forever and never letting me fall again
promising to always be there to catch me
we can dance in the sun like silly gypsy children
not caring of who sees
and we can lace our fingers together
we can watch the stars light up the night sky
so i can see your face and kiss your soft pale lips
and you can stroke my hair and whisper sweet words in my ear
holding me forever and never letting me fall again
promising to always be there to catch me
we can dance in the sun like silly gypsy children
not caring of who sees
and we can lace our fingers together
we can watch the stars light up the night sky
the moon shine and gleam over our eyes
and the night shall project shadows of our souls holding each other until daybreak
so we can create the dearest memories
this ship is bland and white and scary
nothing like the achievement it was made out to be
at times i am mad
crazy for i am all alone
no one can hear me except you
why dont you answer my cries?
perhaps you are busy crying as well
but, most of the time i am thinking
of what may be
of what could happen if i am not careful
of what will happen to this dream
of us
i am on a ship
sailing far away
to a place completely different of where we are today
where nothing is forbidden or taken advantage
where you and i are we
come with me my darling babe
and we shall sail together
and bask in the morning light
and climb the breaking mountains
and pick the withered flowers
and sing old songs of broken records
and fall overboard
come with me my darling
and we shall purchase these tickets to nowhere together

Tomorrow is another day,
Yet today is still so long
Perhaps I'll sacrifice and pray
Or write another song
But songs and poems make no difference
To whether the earth stay blue or green
The challenge is to feel it
In your heart and soul and dream
The neverending wonder
Is if we can make a change
As a whole as a single
My thoughts in disarray
The world is too far gone
To be rescued from its cell
Although some may be drawn to help the cause
It already fell
Some of us want peace
Some of us want love
Constantly fighting against the hate
And begging to above
Those who worry about their death
And what will happen to them then
When they take their last breath
What good have they been?
Worry now my young friends
There is a place that needs
Our attention should go to straightening the bend
And watering the roaring sea
There will soon be no afterlife
If we continue here
What has been done for ages since
We may soon disappear
What matters most is our life
And how we live it up
And now our souls are filled with strife
We need to fill our cups
A thing we look to
that may not even exsist
When a beautiful creation here we brew
In need of persist
I dream of peace
I dream of love and harmony
The day Our earth will be built back again
United piece by piece
Tomorrow is another day
And listen closely my child
Though we may have to pay
It will be worth it in the while
The world will soon be
Back to how it once was
Peaceful and free
And once again it will be ours
Just for you and me

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.