cordelia

03

15 september 2009

she had to have known that i had been staring at her all this time.

no normal person could not have noticed someone staring at them constantly from behind books or in-between the pulsing bodies in hallways or across the room with a longing sigh. no normal person would just let that happen without screaming or yelling or confronting or something rather than letting some stranger stare at them profusely. god, and no normal person would just not care about how someone decides to stare at them or not.

however, i suppose, cordelia evans was not a normal person.

no, now that i think of it, no, she wasn't. and, despite the negative connotation that not normal can bring, it's the truth. cordelia evans was not normal and, to me, that was perfectly normal.

after observing cordelia from afar, i had gathered that much. 

but i knew other things, too, like...

i knew she didn't eat food but rather gently handled round fruits, apples, oranges, plums, in her cream hands until they bell rang and she paused in rolling around the fruit before throwing it away with a careful toss. 

and her hair was an interesting species in itself as it wasn't just a simple blonde color but a wondrous chamelon of reds and yellows and golds that intertwined and twirled around and around until it became difficult to retrace your steps and find where you started.

and that she always seemed to hum this song, i'm not sure what it's called, whenever she was too tired to function and about to drift to sleep to wake her back up again.

oh, and i noticed that cordelia's very being was the epitome of an oxymoron. everything she did gave of this oxymoronic-ness that was just so abrupt that people probably never even gave it a second glance and immediately assumed it was yet another one of her strange qualities that reeked of cancerous cells that would kill you off slowly, painfully, quietly, like it was to cordelia. 

cordelia contradicts her very being.

she juxtaposes everything down to its core until its ripped to shreds to the basic molecular structure. however, oxymoronic seems to work in favor for her. no doubt, it's a strange, peculiar reason, but, it doesn't matter who you are, if you could get close enough to this fine mess of a girl, not even a girl but more of a star, a planet, a sun, then you would understand how well these oxymorons glide over her shoulders with a smooth grace that seems almost improbable.

her light smiles hold this apathetic interest that captures the attention of the beholder and the bittersweet laughs that only inanimate things bring her and the sweet agony that is her very being makes my heart race and seize wildly since i want her to know that she doesn't have to go through all this pain without me 

but i just don't know how to say it.

so instead i watch her and hope that my eyes provide a comfort for her oxymorons and little quirks and stange sadnesses that lie deep in her eyes--

fucking christ, her amber eyes, those whiskey eyes, the ones that are addicting and distraught over by drunkards, and i drink and drink and drink them up each time they secretly glance in my general direction until i lose touch of today and beg for a tomorrow to never come and i keep getting intoxicated over and over again because whiskey is the devil's advocate and kills with its bitter kisses and 

fuck, i'm turning into a raging alcoholic.