But most importantly, I don't want to write about you.
Then why am I standing here with my camera? Because there's a strange kind of beauty in this behemoth of a building standing stalwart in a dying town. A town that's been dying slowly since the day the mill locked its doors for good and the blue-collar man found there are worse colors their collars could be.
I asked why once. The answer scared me, it was something I never wanted to know. And I don't think I've asked why since then.
But I've wondered it. Yes, I've wondered it. Like a cat, curiosity is my bane.
He looked at me funny when he asked me why and I shook my head sadly and told him "you don't want to know."
He ate his toast dry due to his hand being too cramped to hold a butter knife. He looked at the furrow painfully worn into the skin of his fingers from the tweezers. He sighed. He knew his fingers would be bleeding by nightfall, especially since he planned to count double the amount of sand by dinnertime.
After you've done the home repair, then you can think about home improvement.
He placed a hand on her shoulder and glared at those who dared to come too close. In the dark lighting of The Dungeon, with his wings, he looked very much the avenging angel. But not one from the good book.
"But how? I was very careful to…" And that's how you get caught. Someone decides to call your bluff, and you fall into his trap and your confession comes sneaking out.
To be a successful deceiver, you cannot fall for such traps. Nervousness is a sign of guilt and guilt will always trip you up. Replay:
"I knew it was you from the start."
"Oh baby… you're pretty hot yourself, but you know I'm taken."
Go for the witty comeback, the witty line. It will confuse him, make him doubt his suspicions.
"Soon it's going to be mine turn to test your limits." He promises.
"You are so much like a cat." He said. "I've watched you confront something, and you always stand as straight as you can with your shoulders thrown back. And you do look taller, more intimidating."
"Intimidating?" I laughed at the thought that I, at five-foot two, could be intimidating.
"Oh yes, you hiss quite well when your fur gets ruffled."
Give me words any day. Take away my sight. Please.
We were innocence in a world of sin, but already one of us had her foot halfway over that line.
Can you give me a definition I can live with? Something I can finally believe in?
When did the dream die? When did they stop caring?
Maybe someone else will dream you alive again.
She looked at the head's gray, blood-drained skin and filmy eyes.
"Mary Kay's people sure like to play rough, but I'll show them… " She muttered, as she fumbled with her keys and a stack of Avon brochures.
Work done, they left.
The pigeons spent hours trying to find a way back their nests, their eggs, but there was none.
"But that's nonsense. Any little ripple and the image if flawed." He waved his hand arrogantly.
"Then don't make a ripple. Stand as still as you can and then stand even stiller." She stood still, and for a second she could have passed for a statue.
"But it still doesn't make any sense." He shrugged helplessly.
"And for you it probably never will. You take logic to seriously."
She stroked the cover of the book in her hand, admiring the silver moon burned into the dark blue cover. On the top of each white page was written "Dream Journal". She smiled as she traced the words. Then she sighed and carefully placed the journal on the shelf with the rest of the books.
She didn't think her life was interesting enough to write about.
You are the solution. Touch me. Bring back that flush of pink to my cheeks. Touch me and once again see that sparkle in my deep, brown eyes. Touch me, run your rough hands through my soft hair and marvel at its burnished glints. Touch me and give me back my voice, teach me how to sing.
"Oh, don't worry. I see enough. I see violence, hatred, and lots of other nasty things. I know there's beauty too, rainbows, starry nights, a child's laughter. I know about the real world. The thing is, I can't control it, and therefore, I prefer my own world." And then she turns her focus away from him.
He wants to be in her world too, but he doesn't know how to ask.
He withdrew his tongue quickly, scraping it painfully across his teeth in his haste. Now he huddles in the little bus shelter, trembling as he eyes the falling snow. A bus comes and goes.
I knew I should be immune to lines like that but he said it so confidently I found myself leaning into his kiss. And he was right. It was a perfect fit.
"You taste just like warm butterscotch." He said, his voice gruffer than it was a minute before, his hands gently cupping my face. "I think I need to taste you again."
So I let him, after all, you can't fight destiny.
Tangled. Think fly-paper. Think glue. Think knots in my hair. This is what words will get you. They say language is man's greatest invention, but in the wrong hands, I think it's his most dangerous.
You talk on. And me, a confessed lover of words, I sometimes wish you would just shut-up.
"Don't say that, you know it's not true, I am no flower." She pulled her hand away from him.
"But you are. You're my pretty flower, my rose." He smiled at her as he recaptured her hand.
"Tell me you don't want a flower." She pleaded.
"But I do, I want you." He kissed her hand again.
"Oh." She moved away from him, casting him one last look over her shoulder. "Flowers are beautiful. But they can't love. Neither shall I."
Could you fall as far as she did?
Weariness. Though he tries to keep the tiredness from his speech, she can hear the tremor in his voice as he speaks. And she wonders what she's done to make him so weary.
Awareness. Side by side they stand, skin prickling at the nearness of the other, until one of them can stand it no longer and moves away. And this is how their desire plays out.
I wonder if they know they played guardian angel that night.
The center shifted, like it so often does, and suddenly, she was included in its midst. Startled and not a little bewildered, she smiled brightly but edged backward all the same. Until she was once more on the outskirts.
And he, who was used to always being in the middle of everything, who was, in truth, most often the very reason there was a center, didn’t understand. How could anyone not want to be the center of attention?