Her name was Emily, but this was before I knew.
She sat at a single table, alone, near the coffeshop window, and I sat here with her, though I stood across the room.She had tucked a strand of honey nut hair behind her ear and I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to be brushed by her fingertips and so close to her skin, and undoubtedly smelling of coconut and lavender.
I found out later she was a poet, and she sat by the window to observe her muse. This I did not find surprising, for she has forever mystified me and I have always found poets to be such perceptive creatures, and this slightly terrifies me.
What happens when I am no longer a part of her paper? When all of the inspiration in me has been dried and she is found starving?
I fear I will lose her as she loses herself in something else.
I have yet to tell her I love her. She has described love in a number of heart quivering and shattering ways that she does not deserve my inadequates of words. She deserves a poem, but she would not understand why when she opened the bag she seen nothing but a mirror.
There is only her, but I fear she would not understand.
YOU ARE READING
Froot Loops @ Midnight
PoetryI don't know why I care about your thoughts so much. Who the hell cares why you're up at three in the morning?