(no subject)

[cheshiregiraffe]

When I think of her,
with wonder and heartbreak,
confusion and curiosity,
she begins to materialize
in some magical archetypal way
in the front of my mind
and in the back of my throat
and in all of the things that I have ever seen
and felt fondly about
in every transparent
and fleeting image.
My eyes play tricks on me
and I begin to imagine her
behind every set of sunglasses
every smiling curve
every bobbing head of
long
blond
hair.
Even now,
after the fact
and after finding out
that practically every word she ever told me
was a complete
and total lie,
I still can't seem to find grounds to deny her
the lasting
and lofty
place in my heart
that she so skillfully haunts.