Dear Picture-in-my-head,
I wish I had you for my reality instead.
Your star spangled banners,
your dim faded lights,
that alan walker music
misty, misty night.
Him,
from the corner of eyesight
letting his frown drop,
asking me in. Our time.
An audacious vivacity,
the merry sliding down of unhinged desires.
A mating of intellectuality,
less of skinny lust, discarded mask and pride.
Wafting smell of earth drenched in season’s first rain,
halting words breaking the initial stranger pace.
Cups of ginger tea than ***** and ice,
living the moment than getting drowned in haze.
I could whisper my secret wishes -the one that involves a mountain top,
a leather jacket, bullet ride
an unfaltering speech – woman of the moment,
a potential done right.
You could tell me about that night you cried,
That misunderstood age
Your favourite cartoons,
And their funny ways.
We could draw the clouds on our palms,
The ones that compliment a picturgasmic sunset
Feel the lightness of solitude,
the sweetened somethings in the nothing.
The breeze would crash against me,
Before it hit you softly in the face,
And it would feel just right,
To let you have a bit of me this night.
It would be good, or even better;
but it’s just stuck in letters.
For it’s a trapped swansong – in a party with people I barely know,
and wouldn’t want to, at the end of the night.
(An ode to every uninspiring, dreadfully loud party with a stale company I’ve been to.)
(No) Love,
P.G.
