sheirin
Guided. Guided I was by my impractical thoughts of how strong I was, how ready and able I was. Then finally one day I discovered I was not superwoman. I stopped shepherding myself with these thoughts of perfection, and finally started feeling.
I'd give anything for one - even if just for a day. To trade the day for someone else's. Someone not so alone, so broken, so alone. The days go by so slowly, and I'd give it all for one that just didn't.
Sitting here, indoors, I feel like I'm about to have a sun stroke. I can't think, can barely move for fear of falling faint. Thoughts of our last conversation swirling around in my mind. I get up for water and realise as I fall to the ground that the only thing boiling in this freezing room is my heart that's sunk into my stomach.
She would be perfect. Not in that goes-to-church, loves-her-daddy kind of way. Not at all. But the way she looked - as in looked at everything; the way she carried - as in herself; and just the way she was. She was the perfect muse.
She always had it somewhere. Sometimes it was tied in her hair, on her necklace, around her wrist. She always had that yellow bow somewhere. I see the colour yellow and all I can think of is her. Today I reached into the cupboard in the bathroom - the one downstairs. And it glided its way into my sink. It sat there, untied, exposed, trademark.
I came over one morning to help her apply her makeup - you know, the blushes and the eyeliners and the lip-stuff. So much she had forgotten, but how to be beautiful was not one of those things. I rang the doorbell and she opened. "Yes?" Being beautiful she still knew, but today she forgot me.
She caught my attention that one May 6th. She walked off that platform, looking like the travel had got the best of her; but she had my attention anyways. The way she walked like she knew exactly where she was - when she obviously didn't - and the way she wore that fluorescent ribbon around her messy ponytail... it was all but perfection, yet she had me from that moment anyway.
We talk, we laugh, we dance, we sing alone. We learn our own words, to make our stories heard. We want the world to know MY story; she wants HERS told; and everyone says their OWN. But then, something beautiful happens. Chorus. And we talk, we laugh, we dance, and we sing it together.
left me out. i came back to get my things, but she had put a deadbolt on the door, to keep me out. i'll never know what i had done... if it had been loving her too much until she could not take it or not remembering that she didn't love me. but all i did was love her, and that was a good thing. but this deadbolt, she used it and with it she left me out. that last tuesday - the one where we had a lazy sunday and she called in sick for work and so did i - when i told her loved her - that's gone now. locked in behind a deadbolt, and i am out.
Well, I was only watching to pass the time. Then: flashes, sounds, descriptions. Memories. Why was the timing so? I remembered it all, just as I had forgotten it. All in 30 seconds of picture, and now, forever.