this is love (or part III)

[blueasyellow]

“You know something, kid, you’re a big thinker.” I search for sarcasm, but you’re voice is nothing but genuine. I inhale as you speak, catching your words in my lungs. My teeth ache with the sweetness and I catch myself getting lightheaded. “No I’m not,” I shrug. I’m a sixteen year old girl. There’s nothing profound about that. “Well, maybe not. But admitting your own confusion takes something not everyone has.” Silence slips by, and I’m watching the water lap the shore in gentle sweeps. Thinking about being confused only aggravates the situation. “Your confusion is just an outlet for growth.” You seem to like reopening this wound. I want to turn around and make sure that you’re still behind me; that you’re still a teenage boy with brown eyes and a shy smile. The unprompted and irrational fear of finding no one keeps me frozen, so I distract myself by watching the ships transverse the horizon line. I start inventing fantasies, imagining people within the bellies of the boats who are drinking and smiling in champagne tinted light. The ladies are wearing black evening dresses and have strings of pearls draped over their clavicles. The gentlemen wear tuxedoes and bowties. Their diamond cuff links glitter as brightly as their smiles. Soon these people have names, histories, and fears. They have families and fantasies and medical records. Every detail expands to let new details in. But before the immensity of my fiction renders me insane with possibility your fingers touch my naked shoulder. Skin hits skin and suddenly my body is a hollow glass of bursting bubbles that release the ingredients to nirvana. The potency of these chemicals is intoxicating. I’ve found the perfect drug and as addiction sets in reality crumbles, revealing the bigger plan we all seem to miss. Suddenly everything is so relative that nothing is real, nothing except for this feeling. Someone needs to bottle this. Someone needs to call Buddha and tell him he’s got it all wrong. Enlightenment isn’t self-denial, its one thirty am on the beach in November. And just as this starts to get really good, just as the most satisfying numbness I’ve ever felt begins to radiate from my heart to my head to my toes, “We should get going,” you say. “Yeah,” I say. And the ride is over before you know it.

[this is the last part i'm posting here. if you want to read whatever this crap is evolving in to, contact me]