do you recall
the crunch beneath our feet
a gesture small
as we ambled down the street
dirt and gravel
I felt pebbles through my shoe
I unravelled
When I looked at you

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

Sunlight peaked through maple branches
in such a tranquil way
missed chances to make advances
I always hoped you'd stay
a fork in the road ahead
we went different directions
I used many different methods
to try and snag your attention
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

you never seemed to notice
you just stared ahead
heart bloomed as if a lotus
while I tugged at a loose thread
sometimes I'd begin to speak
but choked upon my words
so I walked next to you without a peep
and together watched the birds

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

it's odd and super subtle
the synchronicity
insignificant and pointless
yet means the world to me
quiet walks every afternoon
past the garage and dead leaves
we watched the starlings courtship
do you remember me?

Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face

The freckle, in the center of the back of his right hand, is the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. On it I draw flowers of love and waves of want with kisses and touches. His right hand is the one that fits perfectly into mine, crafted and cut from the same stone to connect at the lifeline on our palms. I notice everything about his hands. The scaly red knuckles and the delicate milk skin between each finger. The dark dirt under each broken nail that never disappears. His hands are the thing that passes over my arm and sends prickles down my back. The hand with that beautiful freckle is the hand that I want to hold for the rest of my life. I love that hand. I love the boy that is attached to this hand. His eyes are deep and bright at the same time. They are the color of a sunrise- dark blue with flecks of orange and yellow. Every day I look in to those eyes and I drown. I drown in the want and the need of him. The hair on his head is the color of happiness- blonde and brown and soft and long and perfect. His lips are average and insignificant but to me they are everything I have ever wanted. They are the color of melted and spun sugar that you get at the carnival. I want to press mine to his, I want to stand on the tops of my toes to reach his lips, to taste him. I want to make constellations with my kisses from the freckles on his nose. I love those freckles but my favorite one is the one on the center of the back of his right hand. The one the color of autumn leaves and tree bark. That freckle made me fall in love with him. The day I noticed that freckle is the day I knew that I was completely, utterly in love with this boy. I was drowning in everything that is him and I was deprived in everything that is not him. But this boy is not mine. He is no ones. He walks this earth with the intent of ruling it and though I am by his side this boy King does not love me the way I love him. I know he loves me but we are platonic. And platonic people do want to press their lips together. And platonic people do not want to wake up tangled in sheets in the morning to see one another. No, platonic people love at a distance but I cannot stand that distance anymore. I want to take my sledgehammer of impatience and dynamite of want and crumble that wall. I will do anything to close that distance because I want him, I need him, I love him. But what does that matter? He is the boy King that cannot be held down and I am just a peasant girl waiting for her Prince Charming.

Duke was admiring his puppy self in the mirror,
when upon his nose a bright red spot did appear.
Turning his head first to the left, then to the right,
studying his nose and this strange red dot so bright.

His young Master Ryan had red dots across his nose.
“Freckles” Ryan had told the pup, with eyes so sad.
So if it was a freckle it was also bad.

Ryan,  his best friend was human, you see.
Duke was a puppy, one day a dog to be.
Humans sometimes got freckles.
Dogs sometimes got fleas.

He remembered another time,
When he had found a flea.
That was so long ago.
But not like this one, that
in the light seemed to glow.

Maybe if he barked, it would go away.
“ WOOF!” He said, and still it stayed.
Scared, his master Ryan he went to find.
lying his head in Ryan’s lap, he whined.

Ryan looked at his pup and laughed with glee,
a the red spot on his puppy’s nose he did see.
Duke looked up and was surprised to see,
that Ryan had hundreds of the same red fleas.

In the room Ryan’s Mother came,      
“So this is where my glitter went” She exclaimed.
Ryan laughed at his Mom and Duke was relieved.
This strange red spot that had made him so bitter,
was not a freckle or a flea, but only red glitter.


Kathleen Kohl/Levinski