Meathead Monologue

doll face

you stand there, hands on the table delicately, touching it as if it were glass,
but it's hard mahogany.
the dress you wear fits your form tightly, and the cherries on a white background stand out,
matching your lips, and my cheeks.
your hair hugs your neck and cascades down your shoulders like a waterfall of chocolate, and i imagine if it smells like so, or if it still hold the scent of the bonfire.
the mary janes on your feet have a dull shine to them and you kick back and forth in a way that would suggest you were thinking of me secretly,
and to top it off you glance at me with coy eyes.
i look at you and think that this is why i am here,
to see you like this, all dolled up and against my wall and looking like you just woke up.
this is why i walked in the room,
to see a masterpiece titled with your name, and i am pleased with the artistry, i might just walk in again.
i realize while looking at you that nothing is meant to be,
things just happen as they do, and it is what it is.
you are what you are.
that's why you never talked to me as if fate was something on your mind,
when we laid under the stars on my blanket and in my backyard, you'd always talk of growing up and going to college and getting a job,
and working, and working, and working.
never of marriage or of kids, and never of love.
that's when i realized you didn't believe in love at first sight.
because when i saw you up against my table, all doll faced like that,
i knew i believed.

r.k.