An Ephiph- an ephip- aphipha- oh forget it its a self realization.
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Author's Note: This is just sort of a writing exercise for me. A smidgen of it is real, but I just took one idea and snowballed it into a piece of lit.
I can't do it. Everything I write, every image I draw becomes of her, or at least of love. I tried drawing a guitar, it turned into a man serenading his love who leaned on a windowsill above him. I tried writing a sonnet about life, and it ended with how love made it so. I tried drawing a sunset, and it turned into a sunrise.
Love does not dominate my thoughts, but rather is how all my thoughts end. Life takes place of death, breathing takes place of breath, verse takes place of phrase and shouts of joy fill in whispered goodbyes. It is an ailment. I do not cough but rather sigh. I do not sneeze but rather gaze and with each swoop of wind I do not sniffle but rather, dream.
I can't do it. This thing, this dream this wake in wake of her. I wonder what stops me from going up to her and saying, "who are you, and where have you taken me? What have you done with love and why have you hidden it everywhere I look. And where, at the same time, have you hidden it so well from me?" She laughs, but not at this. Not of my pity. She laughs at this awkward friend she has, who cannot string a coherent sentence together in his mouth but can write for forever and ever on something he is not even sure he can find. And I laugh too, more at myself than with her. The giggles die down, and she departs, (she has to go home) but I do not see her leave.
I can't do it. This knowing she does not. But I am, anyway. Until tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow.
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Very pretty. I like how you tie it all together like that. I feel for you, really. Sometimes I'll try to write a poem about a bad day but then it'll end up something like "but then it was all better because of that smile i saw on your face." sometimes i consider it a gift, sometimes a nuisance.