I used to enjoy being alone,
But then it became loneliness,
And it is somehow suffocating
To lie here personless.

My bedsheets crave your touch,
As I crave your presence,
We are both isolated, but
I am unsure in which sense.

I promised myself months ago that
This pencil would not touch paper,
And write words about you,
(but it's 00:26 and) I can't think of anything better.

I cannot dance -
so, as I watch you play,
I rock from side to side,
in an awkward sway.

I am little -
the smallest girl, in
the sea of people who
contentedly sing.

I am clumsy -
no doubt, you will see
stumbles, close calls,
a graceless girl is she.

holding my hands high,
humming your melodies,
a mind elsewhere
as you sing about jealousy.

I cannot dance -
I have shaky hands,
but I do have
a roll of film, and you
can call the shots.

clumsily, I fall -
whether it be in or
out of love with you.
similar to how
I bring accidental pain
upon myself, simply
from knocking
my knee on something
solid. clumsily,
I trip over my own
footsteps. I know not
my destination, or
what I'll do upon arrival.

clumsily, I allow
myself to create pathetic
fancies. stupidly,
I give you the power
to inflict
bitter pain upon me.
me, the clumsiest girl
you'll ever know,
who'd be
glad for whichever marks
etched upon her skin,
by you.

She looked at his hands. They were almost translucent, and his blue veins were prominent. It's not that they were grotesque - far from it, in fact. She found them aesthetically pleasing. She wanted to draw them. She wanted to touch them. But she knew she lacked the ability to paint him in all his beauty, protruding bones and all. She knew that no matter how hard she tried, she would never recreate the creases in his skin with the brush. Whichever paint she used, whether it be watercolour or acrylic, she could never do his limbs justice.

He was too far away. He sat on the other side of the maths classroom from her, and it didn't help that she was shortsighted. She could only imagine the details, and join the list of artists who cover white lies in coloured paint.

I think of you in every conscious moment,
so when I lay my head upon my feathered pillow,
I hope not to see you 'til morning.

But you haunt my dreams,
with words you'll never say to me
and kisses I'll never receive.

I long for the affection you give me in my slumber.
I wish I could hate you, you blue eyed wonder.
And how corny but I cannot help it;

I cannot help but wish for the taste of
your chapped lips. And I'll look at you from
the corner of my eye and I'll want to fix your hair,

and shake you 'til you understand
that you send me trundling
into despair.

And why ever have I fallen for you?
Who thought this would be a good idea?

You're an idiot,
(a ridiculously intelligent idiot)

and I hate you  (I love you)
I hate you (I love you).
-- a.c