The Art Of Being

Her

I often think of her as more than a girl with flannels and ripped jeans. She is more than the pictures she posts on her Instagram smoking cigarettes or writing poetry. I glance at her for a second in class and I feel like I'm staring into a painting waiting to be admired but I'm a caterpillar and she's a butterfly. I dream about hearing her talk about her fears and dreams and I dream about her reading her poetry smoothly in my ear and I don't know if I like her or her existence just shakes my being. I don't know how I feel when I see one of her paintings and if she is who I want her to be. I only see what she wants people to see and what she wants everyone to see but I want to see more. I want to see her vulnerable and messy and sad and happy and I want to know her like the back of my hand. But as she sits next to me probably thinking of her life of her friends of her next piece, I am thinking of how beautiful she looks staring down at an empty paper, and how she exhales her breath. I don't know if I like her or if I want to be her. She is the most intriguing creature I have ever encountered and she is there and I am here and I keep thinking of how stupid I am for thinking of her too much but I can't describe how persistent my thoughts are and how she roams through my head like my favorite song and how the thought of us being together feels so dangerous and soothing. But I know that I fall in love with people too fast, even before I speak to them. I fall in love with people by the way they look when they think no one is watching, or by the way they listen to other people or by the way they present a project in class. I fall in love too deeply and too fast and I can't decide if it's real or if it's a deception. But I do know that I love interesting people, and she is someone I would love to paint bare, not just her bare body but her bare mind and soul.