Fickle Romance
The depths of quiet and pink in between red, bellows of modest utterances paraded around seemingly as if it were my forte. With not a sound, not a singular formation of vocabulary you somehow knew the carelessly written tale in my eyes. Within the layers of besotted torched ember, proposedly hidden were the circular fantasies spinning round for you. It might have been for you that I longed, longed like a prayer that was never to be answered. That I obliviously begged for the picture in front of me to be sewed onto me — a surrender — a sacrifice to be mine. It was in a sweet denial that you were eternally tied to me. Through actions of reservedness, defiance raged in flickers upon the realization of my indecent thoughts, my own concoction of impure notions. The secrecy of my hand slipping in yours while your fingers padded along the sides of my face. It was fools play indulging in the afterthought of the dances in the rain, the laughs in the depths of the night and for the lulled swaying of the ocean in your eyes as you choked with shyness. Whispering the three fearful meaninglessly meaningful words “I love you”. But my fingers grasped painfully on the fickle dream, fickle romance that could not be. The perilous need in your eyes took over mine but was not enough for me to clarify. For the deep instilled fear of an us, of a we, and of a one held me back. Nothing like this could exist in this lifetime. Why did I not know that this “you” could hold me together and distill me into nothing all the same time — into falsity — into an indistinguishable illusion.
