You could've promised me tomorrow, but you didn't. A dance of glancing eyes and gestures left to imagination's interpretation. A feathered touch across the knee in some sort of sympathetic understanding attempt at comfort left me questioning your intent. You spoke of your presence as if it were powerful enough to entice others into some sort of magical compliance. A man aware of the effect he had on the opposite sex-golden hair and blue eyes.
A world I didn't ask for, but I fell into anyway. A world of pretend built upon what we think we can touch. A world reflected on the stage, in the screen, on a painter's canvas, and in the words of a book or a script ready to be visualized by another's interpretation. A world colored by English rock bands, angry female guitarists, subtitled films that left your brain on speed dial, giant Downtown Denver bookstores, Colorado's version of Los Angeles, Impressionists, colored sticks of incense, a pack of illegally bought smokes, Sylvia Plath and Diane Wakoski. Writing of poets that you said reminded you of mine.
You could've said I was lost-a seventeen year old girl on a path of youthful discovery. I would've said it was the last time I felt alive. Yet, nothing that intensely good lasts forever. The delusion of promise can only be savored until it escapes into the forgotten plume of leftover ashes.
So you went your way and I went mine. You said you loved her, but you weren't in love with her. It was something that took me seventeen years to understand-a concept that became a shadowed reflection in the aftermath of chance.
I feel nothing for you now, as though our paths never crossed. As though words were never spoken and an eraser has taken to that corner of a young girl's heart. Still in this circled journey, I must credit those blue eyes with a piece of my existence.
The only problem is that I don't really feel the need to see why. The rose's petals were already wilted before it was time to say goodbye.
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