Wine Of Regrets

I held you in my thoughts
more than I do
in reality.

The Wine Of Regrets

I speak the best words, my friends would often claim. I give the right advice. The ones with logic that strangers would applaud in awe. I leave footprints in somebody's dictionary and chase their doubts away.

On their behalf, I defined what love should be.

But then I met Mason.

He's the boy next room.

I watch him by the window every time he passes by our classroom. The smile on his face could lighten up the whole universe and I remember how my heart thudded for chances that weren't available to me. He was dating Kara, that cheerleader who always got the crowd cheering for her. The sound of her name tasted like liquor down my throat. Cold and bitter. But Mason must have loved her for a million reasons I could never see in myself.

Her pale skin contrasts mine.

Her almond eyes reflect my insecurities.

Her sweet smile tells me I'm off the market.

Her graceful gesture reminds me of the calm ocean. She moves like splashing waters on the shore while I am the raging waves only surfers would love. And her soft voice, they utter the name I wish was mine to begin with.

Hope is a poison I drink every night. My chest constricts at every gulp but I love the squeezing pain it brings, the sour taste that blends within, and the grimace that flashes across my face. It makes me feel unwanted but I still love taking the role in Mr. Cupid's game. I knew the arrow would hit me, but it'd hurt me good. I would certainly bleed, but I'd bleed like paintings displayed in museums.

Pain is an art.

And I am a masterpiece.

Now I held this pen at midnight, wrote these lines I hid beneath my skin. At fourteen, my grandma told me what love should be, but I never listened. She said love is calm. What I felt was outrageous. She said love is safe. I was always in danger. She said love doesn't rush. Mine was impulsive. She said love is peaceful. Well, he kept me awake at night, asking myself, "What does she have that I don't have?" 

And then I had a glimpse of Drew inside that small box in our living room. He's always present where the spotlight is. He's the boy every girl would love to meet at Times Square, New York. His name was crafted in bold italics in magazines and tabloids. A star I could only watch but will never touch.

I cast him a long, thoughtful stare. Held his brown eyes that were gazing back at me on the screen until my father changed the channel. It dawned on me then. Admiration excludes no one.

There was no possibility of stopping myself that day. If I can't have a man in reality, I'll create one inside a fantasy. But with every attempt of mere adoration comes obsession.

I reclined my head on the pillow with his embroidered name. Wrote him a letter day after day though he never spoke back to me. America's a dream I thought of by the morning but had me wishing to have slept more just so I could meet that boy in my subconscious.

His songs muffled my cries at two a.m.

His photos were hung on the wall.

I pinched his nose all the time.

And I am no poet but I rhyme us in a hopeless prayer. The one that will never be granted even by the gods and saints. Still, I have reserved my vocabulary for this midnight phantom. I have my ink spilled on pages that no one has ever read and buried this dream-like affection underneath the grave of lies I made.