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A while back I met a girl. No. I met “the girl”.
As the quote goes “To the world you may be one person but to one person you may be the world.” and that was it, she was my world.
Now before you go thinking that I’m just some love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager caught up in the beauty and wonder of his first love just think!
Actually don’t. Don’t think, don’t rationalize, don’t mull it over assuming and judging, just listen.
Because that is exactly what I am. I am a love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager.
I am head over heels for this girl. I am knees over elbows, I am elephants over tricycles!
She drove me crazy, actually I think I walked there all by myself but it was nice to finally have someone to share it with.
She was my friend and then she wasn’t my friend. She was more than my friend.
She was my friend, my teacher, my counselor, my idol, my source of instant joy in a world that had proven itself to be cruel and bitter at the worst of times.
She was that person that I could picture running down the streets in the pouring rain in shorts, a T-shirt and bright yellow gum boots handing out colourful umbrellas to people trying to stay dry. She was that one spark from a campfire that stayed brighter longer than all the others drifting up out of the flames into the dark sky
and just when you thought it was going to go out it joined the stars and became immortalized.
She was my love, my everything, my world.
And I didn’t love her for the big "look at me moments".
Its true what they say about loving someone for the little things.
I loved her for the whispered secrets and the quiet murmurs.
I loved her for the way she held my hand when I had to leave.
She had the softest grip but with all my strength I couldn’t break free.
I loved her for the way she looked at me when we danced around her kitchen in our socks laughing.
I loved her for the way she stood up on her tip toes making our kisses last just one second longer before our lips parted.
I loved her.
It didn't matter that I couldn't think when I was around her because her presence turned my brain to mush
because I was with her and that made everything else okay.

One day she stopped holding my hand when I had to go, we didn't dance in our socks anymore, she didn't stand on her tiptoes for kisses.
When she left me I told myself I would get over her and move on, that was over a year ago.
For a long time I wondered how I was going to live in a world where everything reminded me of her.
I  tried to date other people and failed miserably when my thoughts were filled with pictures of her. I struggled, my love for her tore me apart.
Eventually I began to live again, functioning with an acceptance that I may never be over her.

Today I met a girl.
No. I met "the girl", the same girl, the girl I had met over two years ago and today, she's my friend and I am still elephants over tricycles for her.
After the screams
I was coming undone,
splitting at the seams.
I hauled all my watercolors
out of my brother's office.
I took the paintbrushes
and palettes of a thousand hues
lodged between his camo army vest
and his heavy shoes
and I sprawled out in the
spinach-green living room.
I painted
willow trees and silhouettes
and viridian snakes spilling from ***** lips.

At 2am I got up
headed to the deck
and watched the stars
Because sometimes I forget.
I let my nights
be slaughtered by sobs.

These nights, this view
It’s mine, you can’t have it.
Everyone needs a place
and this is mine,
this tiny nirvana,
2 o'clock constellations
in the dark purple bruise of night
are my home.

A pool of watercolors,
magenta, cyan, indigo, emerald and cerulean,
swells in my chest,
in the empty space between my lungs.
A drowning, a baptism.

Everywhere, in everything,
your unblinking ghost.
It refuses to dissolve.
motley crew of
sadnesses, each
wearing back
-wards hats
that read
OBEY.
Life and its ups and downs..
..towns
Becoming cities
Growing into
Monstrosities.

People pushed together
Like storms and weather
They grumble
Rumble
And in this rabid dry tumble they come out
All creased.

At least in the countryside where I reside
We have fresh air that fills the lungs..
..not forgetting the smell of fresh dung which they put on the crops
And then sell to the shops
Where the folk in the city can buy..vegetables to fry.
Stirred?..I could cry.

Abominations of regulations..the world is insane.
Takes in a deep breath
And looks once again..it still looks the same.

Men in the banks..those corporate tanks..it's a war
We fight on each and every side
Even in these hamlets where the gentlefolk reside.

There's not a hope..no release..
..from the unceasing march, of the shiny suits
Who would with their boots seek to trample and tred..
..and that being said,
We should surrender?

Tender our resignation and in utter frustration go home.
This is the New Rome we have built
Guilt you can keep.
I'm going to sleep
Tomorrow is only a dream.
I want the words to flutter through
In an almost mutter
To be understood by few

I want to give off a vibe
That inspires a dislike
Of every line

A discomfort
In every rhyme

A malignancy
That encompasses time

I want to touch shoulders
Merging minds
Just to watch us
Crumble in mine

I want humbled in kind
With the view from outside
The box
cool iridescent droplets
tumble soundlessly over damp stone steps
spat from a dark cloud-smitten sky.
the corners of your lips twisted
in an ominous snarl,
eyes flashing
green lightning.
make-up streaming down porcelain warm-apple cheeks,
mixing with ***** rain.

you, typically picturesque magazine perfection
trussed up in delicate pin-up duds
your hair twirled into a million
intricate, flawless little curls
that fall together like pieces
in a puzzle.
secretly pinned together to uphold a pretty facade.
far from easy and natural,
yet more desirable.

but look at you now.
hair soaked, tendrils of slick dark silk plastered to cold skin,
with mascara running down
an immaculate visage,
that finely curved chest
heaving with furious little sobs.
fists clenched with white hot knuckles,
you shake with rage.
just like a little girl...
a little girl hiding behind a layer of mother's make-up,
throwing a tantrum.

Maybe it's endearing;
to see such passion
from one who never showed her soul
and kept her musings locked tight in a faraway place.
Maybe it's not.
The creature I once loved,
destroying little parts of my soul,
one by one
with sharp words and cruel insults
guilt-trips and indecencies.

But the tear-stained face in front of me
no longer evokes the desired emotion.
Hollow steps take me away,
in the opposite direction,
her dismal cries following me -- wailing ghosts
lost, wandering through the wintry rain.
"A character is never the author who created him. It is quite likely, however, that an author may be all his characters simultaneously."
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