A Love Poem

Here’s a love poem for a boy I’ll never meet
Here’s to his eyes I’ll never see
His heart, though I know it’ll never be mine
and his smile, always in my eye

Here’s to you, my darling,
Here’s to all your days
Here’s to all your errant thoughts
and all your gentle ways

Perhaps someday you’ll read this
Perhaps someday you’ll smile
You’ll think it sweet and whimsical
but you’ll never know my wiles

I’m not the same as you, you see
I’m not your kind of girl
I’m not sweet and dainty,
I’ll never be your hidden pearl

I’m a broken girl, darling
I’m a book with pages gone
No matter how you read me
You’ll never truly know my song

But this one is for you, sweet boy
because this one you deserve
You’re the boy I’ve always dreamt about
and I wish I was your girl.

Fantasy

Music playing

speakers blaring

pounding beats

and stomping feet

cutting through my trance.

I can’t breathe

for the thoughts in my head

If I let them out

I may as well be dead

So I’m drowning

in the music

And my lungs are full of it

but I cannot stop

the endless images

in front of my eyes

so I am falling

into your arms.

I’m lost in the music

lost in your eyes

lost despite all the reasons why

I can’t stay this way.

I’m fighting to breathe

to wake from this dream

but the nightmare is waiting

when I open my eyes

and I break to stay

just for a moment more

encased in the lies

and the fantasy.

 

 

She woke, opened her eyes to a film of tears that cleared into a stream running into the dark of her hair. She was alone, in an empty, barren room, and it was silent save for her breathing. She was panting, sobbing, and she rolled over to bury her face in the pillow so she didn’t have to see how alone she truly was. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed to a deep, unsteady rhythm. Her eyes drifted shut and the music started again, and, for just a few moments more, she was whirling around a dark garden lit only by lanterns,  in the arms of the only man she’d ever loved.

When she woke up the next time, she brushed the sleep out of her eyes and sat up. Her pillow was damp, and so was her hair, but her face was dry. The world she lived in was sterile, cold, clean of emotion, but she held in her dreams and memories a love that was alive, vibrant, and filthy with the fantasy of life.