May 2015
The girl awoke, as ever before
Younger than herself yet older,
As before, too young to know her own words
And too old to speak them freely.
Words, she said, were like sneezes,
Maybe not so frequent, but still,
For some erupting easily and eloquently
And for others, hanging painfully unheard
Building pressure yet never ceasing until forgotten.
She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light.
No, she said, sneeze was not a clever metaphor
She tried again.
Words, she said, were like flowers,
Maybe not so dainty, but still,
Some big, catching the eye, the ones we plant in our gardens,
Others smaller, the wildflowers that often go unnoticed
Yet somehow carry more beauty than the others.
She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor.
No, she said, flowers could not be compared
To something as graceful as words.
She tried again, her tender lips unsure
Her blue eyes sparkling yet broken.
As she stumbled over thoughts,
The corners of her mouth curled subtly.
I wished I could kiss those lips.
Words that are not hers fall from my hands
And thoughts that are not hers spring to me,
More eloquently than my own thoughts.
When I am alone, and my chest hurts,
Oh it hurts, and my heart won’t stop.
My eyes often fill with tears and I cannot stop
Or feel what keeps me here,
It all goes, it all goes.
The words I say are hers began as words
That only sprang to mind from fiction
And yet everything comes back to her once more, again.
When I am alone, and my heart is not beating with my consent,
The face that fills the pain is hers alone.
I love him deeper yet I do not feel the pain from him
For when I feel an ache, an ache is all I feel
Therefore the things that hurt, hurt all the more.
She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light.
She smiled with those perfect lips, yet those words were not hers.
I do not remember any words.
She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor.
Her blue eyes fixed on me, I think she does not love me,
Although her words say otherwise.
I would not wish for her to love me, for I love another more.
Words that are not hers fall from my hands
And thoughts that are not hers spring to me,
More eloquently than my own thoughts.
The words I say are hers began as words
That only sprang to mind from fiction
And yet everything comes back to her once more,
Again, again,
Again.
Younger than herself yet older,
As before, too young to know her own words
And too old to speak them freely.
Words, she said, were like sneezes,
Maybe not so frequent, but still,
For some erupting easily and eloquently
And for others, hanging painfully unheard
Building pressure yet never ceasing until forgotten.
She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light.
No, she said, sneeze was not a clever metaphor
She tried again.
Words, she said, were like flowers,
Maybe not so dainty, but still,
Some big, catching the eye, the ones we plant in our gardens,
Others smaller, the wildflowers that often go unnoticed
Yet somehow carry more beauty than the others.
She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor.
No, she said, flowers could not be compared
To something as graceful as words.
She tried again, her tender lips unsure
Her blue eyes sparkling yet broken.
As she stumbled over thoughts,
The corners of her mouth curled subtly.
I wished I could kiss those lips.
Words that are not hers fall from my hands
And thoughts that are not hers spring to me,
More eloquently than my own thoughts.
When I am alone, and my chest hurts,
Oh it hurts, and my heart won’t stop.
My eyes often fill with tears and I cannot stop
Or feel what keeps me here,
It all goes, it all goes.
The words I say are hers began as words
That only sprang to mind from fiction
And yet everything comes back to her once more, again.
When I am alone, and my heart is not beating with my consent,
The face that fills the pain is hers alone.
I love him deeper yet I do not feel the pain from him
For when I feel an ache, an ache is all I feel
Therefore the things that hurt, hurt all the more.
She sat up, her tousled hair catching in the morning light.
She smiled with those perfect lips, yet those words were not hers.
I do not remember any words.
She pressed her sun-kissed feet to the floor.
Her blue eyes fixed on me, I think she does not love me,
Although her words say otherwise.
I would not wish for her to love me, for I love another more.
Words that are not hers fall from my hands
And thoughts that are not hers spring to me,
More eloquently than my own thoughts.
The words I say are hers began as words
That only sprang to mind from fiction
And yet everything comes back to her once more,
Again, again,
Again.
