i’ve been saying i want something more

while holding on to something

with someone

who continuously lets me down

someone who constantly makes love hurt

someone inconsiderate

selfish and negative


i’ve been saying i want something real

while holding on to something

with someone

toxic, unsupportive, unreliable

incapable of telling the truth

so much tension, arguments

all the verbal abuse


i’ve been saying i want true love

while accepting and holding onto the opposite

 

   I looked up from my laptop, my fingers pausing their dance across the keys. The clinking of cups on saucers and aroma of fresh espresso filled the quiet coffee shop, the scent seemingly emitting from the walls. From my quiet and cozy corner, I could see the entirety of the shop. From the local art delicately hung upon the walls, to behind the counter where the worker on shift was swaying slightly to the music playing from his headphones, but I could also see her.

   She sat at the far table, right next to the window. The golden afternoon sunlight shown softly through the glass, catching her chocolate colored hair in the light. I felt my vision tranfix on her, hypnotized by the way she carefully flipped each page of her history textbook, and the way her feet, fitted in beat up white converse, tapped the rustic wooden floor, as though to the beat of a song only she could hear.

When my walls come crashing down,
and the emotions I hide come out,
I find myself thinking of him.

Thinking of the his eyes,
which always shown with the bluest blue,
bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.

Thinking of his laugh,
soft and gentle like a warm jacket
on a cold winter day.

I think about his voice,
always sweet, yet sharp,
like a fresh lemonade.

I think about the hours we spent together,
watching old movies at the drive though,
stargazing by the old willow tree.

I remember the way he talked,
as he pointed out the constellations,
it seemed as if his soul was smiling too.

Sometimes, I think I still see him,
parking his bike by the corner store,
or sitting with his feet dangling at the town docks.

But he’s never there,
it’s only ever a trick of the light,
or a cruel joke of my own imagination.

When my walls come crashing down,
and the emotions I hide come out,
I find myself thinking of him.

Thinking of the his eyes,
which always shown with the bluest blue,
bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.

Thinking of his laugh,
soft and gentle like a warm jacket
on a cold winter day.

I think about his voice,
always sweet, yet sharp,
like a fresh lemonade.

I think about the hours we spent together,
watching old movies at the drive though,
stargazing by the old willow tree.

I remember the way he talked,
as he pointed out the constellations,
it seemed as if his soul was smiling too.

Sometimes, I think I still see him,
parking his bike by the corner store,
or sitting with his feet dangling at the town docks.

But he’s never there,
it’s only ever a trick of the light,
or a cruel joke of my own imagination.

 They say that when we dream, it’s caused by slow brain waves creating narratives that are a mixture of the days events and our imaginations. That these fancy imagines, designed for mental recovery, are of our own creation. But if that is true, somebody tell me why every time my head falls to it’s pillow and my eyes flutter shut, I see it. And why every time I wake up, my mind is full of memories of something that never was.
 I see an old, run-down, wooden shelter, held together by a few nails and planks of wood, glowing in golden afternoon light. I see long, silky, grass and soaring mountains off in the distance. I am confused, always confused, for this is a place I know not, I have never set foot on the ground here.

 Our Vermont world is best to be seen, in late January. Where the still ponds have blossomed into angelic frozen displays and the balsa’s exhale the aroma of incense of the season. Notice how the sun’s rays seem to increase in intensity before diving below the horizon; how the sherbert sky reflects upon the blanketed landscape, giving the view a dreamlike aura.
  Let us walk for miles down the wooded roads, feet crunching and eyelashes coated in the bright, cold, cotton like substance. Let us pass the laughing brook and the frozen pond. Let us pass beneath the white coated branches and trunks. Let us enjoy the echoing silence and the sharp, cold air.
 At this time of year our land must seem an artist's vision of paradise. As strong and brutal as a renaissance painting, but as peaceful and delicate, as watercolor.  

 

When I see you, you're a candy apple red, a bright sensation on my mind.
The faint melody of fair music and the mechanical whirl of carousals seems to admit from you like an aura. I see flashes of kids with sticky cotton candy coated fingers, giant stuffed animals carried in tired arms and bright flashing lights. When I see you, I'm confused. I'm always confused. There are always so many people with so many colors and so many tastes and so many scents and so, so, so many sounds. You never seem to make noise, but I can hear you, I can always hear your color. Your a candy apple red, a bright sensation tingling in my ears, teasing my brain, tricking my mind and my senses. Wrapping my head into a world of your own, subconscious, creation.
Yes, when I see you, you're a candy apple red.
A bright, beautiful, sweet, sensation on my mind. 
A candy apple red.


 

A creature, that's what I am.

  The scene in front of her was almost perfect.

  Almost.

The reflection in the mirror showed a girl, no more than 15, with wide, bright eyes. Her creamy complexion was buried under a wall of foundation and concealer. Her lashes dark and thick, but not her own. Her fizzy caramel colored hair was unnaturally straight, not a hair out of place. Her lips were painted a furious red and her eyelids a dark bronze.
She was perfect.

Wasn’t she?

No,

Perfect would be herself.

Her own lashes,

Her own skin,

Her own hair,

Her own lips,

Yes, that would be perfect.

but this girl,

this creature in the mirror,

It was almost perfect.