Where my love went I often followed: he stayed behind trees and beneath little beams of grass. Tall he was, yet somehow he seemed shorter than everyone else. Somewhere neat he was tucked away in; though, so paradoxical—for everyone saw him. Limes and lights dunked his hair into a brown color, and the winter wind had him fair-skinned. A crooked nose from a pollution incident. Scars on him, lender and tean: thoughtful eyes, but actually in speaking and motion his eyes. Watery somehow, or maybe warmth: what I mistaked for fluid was heat; he treated me like somehow I was his languid fusions. And this way I felt often, despite any particular stances in life. No matter how he wore his body, in what fashion or way, my heart made up its mind to idealize him. Not out of ego, though it was part of it, out of the necessity to construct our place in a symbolic: so, ego. But something in the way his eyes moved, drew me out of this symbol-maze. There I was faced with his own swords: dramatic I might be, oversimplifying he might do, but it is how I see his hands—as swords. Something that poked and pricked holes into the mask I wore; done so casually, yet so poignantly.

“I don’t understand how humans change like the wind.” He speaks with a room-heavy voice. I touch the bugnet that is against a clear blue sky. The silhouette of my arms and hands make me despise my body and the body he is in. I wish I could see a soul instead. I’d rather be anything but me — the sky turns into the sea. I want to be free from this body. — the Me in the trees or a growing field or a bee.

My eyes fly to numbers moving. Self-sabotaging regret pools in my throat. “Sorry I kept you up so long.” I can imagine the rest of the hours he has until he lands. “I like spending time with you.”

Earlier here was my photo:

laying my head on my silk pillowcase
I toy at my chain while I ogle at you —
blush a lot, and crush a lot, considering whether to rush or not —
my brain buzzes with a million different things —
to ask and ponder if it would hurt —

Now my video reel is filled with ponderings of self-sabotage. For this, I’d have to retreat for a day or two. In order to remove again.  Forgetfulness is overflowing in other’s minds. A twisted world and logic it might be: this writing has faltered as my thoughts.

Every day I want more and more of his hands to hold mine; wanting the good life or the sweetness of his relief. The things about him allure me, but what good does it do that I had to confront these things?

I ask that you choose to not look at anywho. I can be all your colors if you let me. I can be all sounds, all smells, all tastes, all feels. Most of these other ladies don’t have a clue; something that unlocks at the heart. The formal and pervasive practicality of the human primal nature — we can leave that for others, leave that for the dogs outside.

I’d rather him be in love with who I am.