4.30.09

My goofy grin of satisfaction seeps out uncontrollably as I’m trying to compose myself in public.
I just left that bookstore with previously enjoyed gems,
Bookshelves perfumed with that wonderful smell of time.
I sat in a lonely chair with its white leather dress torn at the corners and patterned with stains.
I grabbed his book off the shelf again.
I examined the crisp leaves wearing different eyes,
Reading only those pieces monogrammed discreetly with the letters he owns.
His beautiful soul windows of azure held steady in my mind as I indulged myself in his poetry.
I examined treasure after treasure as they were secrets I stole, like a peephole to his soul.
I stared for moments awkwardly long into the glittering contents tainted with sadness, hopelessness, cynicism, and anger, but all beautiful.
My favorite poem is pretty predictably my favorite.
Words paint this beautiful woman, imperfectly perfect.
Each quirky detail scripted.
She laughs and screams with giggles in her hair, and smiles in her curves,
I’m glad to meet her.
The idiosyncrasies he chooses light my smile knowing those are the things I want people to love about me.
He loses hope at the end of that piece,
But I’m not ready to deem my perfect picture as fiction,
just yet.