You were that girl I used to see everyday in the same cold air, on the same sidewalk. You wore the same black hooded sweatshirt over your head evertime I saw you, tucked away like a snail in it's shell. We shared a few quick glances now and again, and we both knew what was happening, but we'd never say anything. Eye contact is such a simple thing, and yet through it, so many complex thoughts can be shown; and we always act like it's insignificant, like it means nothing..but we all know inside that it does, that it's something more than a simple glance in a direction. You were the one I never talked to, even though I wanted to more than anything. I always wondered what it was that kept me so drawn to you, and at the same time, so distant; my body just wouldn't do what my brain wanted. What is it that causes people to be so self concious?
--
You could have stood next to me in that warm room, with the brown sticky floor. We could've looked at each other and said "Must've been polished recently". We could've sat in silence and listened, we could've grooved together, or drank high quality beer together. I could've shown you what I thought was the perfect weather ever, and told you where I wanted to live so I could experience it. and we could've loved each other, and it would have been just fine. Something about a missed opportunity makes it even better.
--
You could have stood next to me in that warm room, with the brown sticky floor. We could've looked at each other and said "Must've been polished recently". We could've sat in silence and listened, we could've grooved together, or drank high quality beer together. I could've shown you what I thought was the perfect weather ever, and told you where I wanted to live so I could experience it. and we could've loved each other, and it would have been just fine. Something about a missed opportunity makes it even better.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Interestingly enough, I think that's what causes people to be critical of their own work. Inside the head, it remains perfect. Once it's been made solid with words, or paint, or stone, or whatever, it become imperfect because of the medium. As the creator, all you notice are the imperfections, where it failed to live up to the vision in your head.
The boy died not so long ago. The girl's disappeared into oblivion. But somehow they're just as special to me as the people who I did tell, even more so because I never gave them the opportunity to hurt me.