Funny

Foo Fighters - Everlong

     It happened earlier last week.  It was an old poem: Funny word.  A poem I had written specifically for her.  It was over the name of the color of her dress.  I remembered the photo... so did she.  I used a memory drawn from the obscure colors of the 64 count crayola box.  I was wrong.  She knew.  She knew immediately.

     Who was it?  It was her.  The most beautiful girl in town.  Most people wouldn't know.  They might have only looked on the outside.  Which was incredible, don't get me wrong.  The subtle dancing of her hips when she walked.  Her seemingly unknowing ability to kill with her smile.  The fire that smoldered in her eyes.  She was fatal in beauty but I loved here for the savageness of spirit that she kept so well hidden.  Her observant eyes, her tender spirit.  A touch that could give life as easily as it took it away.  And as you can imagine, if you were allowed entry into her heart, that only exponentially increased all she did.  The gilded gauze that made her shine.  While love is blind... I was her friend.  This means I kept one eye open.  I choose to remember though I can recall all.
   
    Could she have been looking at it?  Maybe.  I felt that excited joy inside.  The same false hope that arises each time someone wants to befriend me on Facebook.  All I see is the request.  Excitement erupts, although I know full well it won't be from her.  It never will be,  But that doesn't kill the leap of hope.  That is until I strangle it back.  

   So what of the poem.  It was written of an experience.  The photo.  A dance.  Which and where isn't important to his story.  It didn't matter.  You see, I was with her.  That was all that mattered.

     Music provided the excuse for us to press, one against the other.  For our souls to melt bleeding in the union that made our hearts beat as one.  Syncopated in beats and pauses.  We were caught in the precipice of l'amour fous, the burning love.  Desire, why it was allowed to boil.  Rolling and violent our passions were held until the pot was about to burst.  But you couldn't let it show.  Save in your eyes, which as always serve as a glorious window to the soul.  Striving to keep at bay the devouring passions was okay.  I could hold it back.  Like I said, I was with her... and that was all that mattered.

     Somewhere, someone, they  had a camera.  It was time for poses.  The capture of reality in a frozen moment... but what did the freeze display  I held her in a dip.  In my look at her you saw a man in exultation.  But that is inconsequential.  It was her.  In her look at the camera she exuded joy.  Her beaming smile defying any darkness that the world might bring against us.  I looked so fulfilled.  So did she.  At least to me.  At the end of the day, it was her and I, and that was all that mattered.

     So what happened to the picture?  All are cast out of Eden I suppose.  The fates must laugh.  I had clung to mine.  Forced to give it up, though it had already burned itself into my memory.  What of her?  I would discover that she had turned it in to some group in order to be a little sister to an organization.  Very precious.  No doubt they helped to teach her that a blow was the same as a kiss.  It wasn't really cheating.  Not really.  That crazy funny word fuchsia.  Though I had recalled  magenta.  Kind of funny isn't it?