No matter how hard I try to force down my heart’s hopeless desire,

I cannot help it; you materialize by the holly tree on the corner of my house,

Your sunshine and freckle-drenched face smiling at me

Sprawled out on the sun lounger, reading in the garden.

You appear alongside me at the traffic lights,

Grinning from the driver’s seat of your white 80s drop-top

With the wind in your hair when the light turns green.

You dance with me in the kitchen, and lay beside me in my bed,

But only if I never blink; and oh, how my eyes water

As I try to keep my dream around for just a moment longer.

I'd like to dream of a dress as white as snow.
But then again what do I know?
I'd like to imagine a stone cool as water.
But then again why even bother?
I'd like to think about all the things to come.
But I suppose not until right now is done.

I've never been in love
though I write of it a lot
I haven't gotten a special someone sent from above
and if I'd ever gotten feelings, I wouldn't take a shot
because I'm not the person I write about being
but it is the person I hope to be
writing is my way of fleeing
my sad and lonely reality

I write about catching feelings
but it's only happened just one time
though it wasn't too appealing
it could've been because I'm still in my prime,
although I don't think I really liked him even from the start
he wasn't like the dream boys I'd write about
and when I lost those feelings it didn't break my heart
he had seemed like something I could simply live without

I've never had a boyfriend
even if my poems tell you differently
I'm not sure who I'll spend my days with till the end
and the people I write of are those I wish I had, coincidently
though I don't wish to have one
at least not now, I think I'm far too young
and most girls I know already have it said and done
but I wouldn't want a relationship so soon sprung

I've never hugged a boy
at least not in a romantic kind of way
I've never met one that made me feel that type of joy
but I'm not caught up in that kind of cliche
I have time to wait for one who's sweet
I'm not in too much of a rush
sometimes I do wish to be swept off my feet
but so far, none have really made me fall, but only blush

so no I haven't been in love
though I write of it a lot
because its something one can dream of
and yes, I wish I've known what that feels like, but no, I have not


© L.F.

i want to write about you
but i think it might be too soon

i am stopped on the cracked cement
next to a small but necessary park
in the middle of it all

there are hundreds of thousands of windows
shut tightly to keep the cool air in

the only chickens for miles
are being served up on plates
between college roommates
and lovers who find the city
more romantic than any
vague resemblance of a kiss
exchanged quickly on a narrow step
  
but still, i carry around my wicker basket
packed with old egg cartons
and carefully folded tea towels

i memorize the feeling of tired eyes that won’t look away
of how warm it is inside my bedroom with the door closed
tracing your outline in the dark

until the soft orange light of morning
paints every shadowy corner

until i have found myself feral
deep in a dark blue thicket
somewhere between you and the trees

I let people in
I let people in because I always try and see the best in people
I always try to see the best in people because I’ve had a lot of practice on myself
Maybe i’m stupid
Trying to believe there’s good in everyone
Maybe i should just accept that some people are crap human beings
my fists are crumpled in my lap
Just like my crumpled expectations
Expectations that i thought were a reality
But i guess i’m just living in a daydream

at night, i dream of sun-drenched eggshell walls
baking in the morning like yukon gold potatoes
where we wake unbothered by the encroaching light
i’ll meet you in the kitchen to switch on the toaster oven
the coffee ***, pulling our ceramic mugs from the drying rack
carrying our books with bent covers to the balcony
where you set down thick slices of french bread slathered in butter
and a bowl of fresh, cold strawberries on a small round table
that we found at a sunday yard sale two summers ago
we take turns taking crisp bites in between sips of steaming coffee
mine with raw honey and cream, yours black
our oily thumbs staining the corners of thin ivory pages
i listen to the sound of you reading; of the world waking up
birds singing their sunrise songs; and my heart
slow, and buoyant, and irrevocably yours

Why does the sun shine
on empty branches?
The wind rustles the grass
like I rustle my guitar.
Wish the clouds could
take me to Paris.