Dancing like Stars

An actual match. Not forced. Not altered. A match. Pure. Innocent. Unyielding.

Here we are dancing like stars, creating shapes like planets and opportunities like meteors. We are creators. Artists. Hopefuls.

The days pass and we are aligned in that it feels like years. Decades. Memories. Yesterday was a year ago. Yet only the hours remind us. We are happy. We are young.

Moments tell us we have an eternity left. These year-days. I have no more reasons to count.

I’ve found my stationary euphoria. Marked it. Captured it. Watching it grow, eyes wide and heart full.

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Morning coffee and complaints.

I’m not a book to be read and devoured. Page turner. Chaptered. Preface. Prologue.

If I was I’d be paper back. You can see the use easily. Wear and tear.

Wouldn’t that be easier for you? That way what you interpret me to be I would then be. Making me amount to some desirous interlude. Something you escape from the reality into. I’m fictional.

If a book could somehow glare at the reader that would be happening momentarily.

Dear reader, fuck you and your insurmountable stereotypes. It is fun to imagine the world as simple as you make it. Hearts and flowers. Successes and triumphs.

Your gross naivety drives me to insanity. Sickness. Food poisoning.

What you produce in your thought bubbles is romantic and ridiculous. Temporary and incorrect. You misinterpret the information set in front of you.

It would be so nice to live in your world. A world where what you want things to mean, they mean. Truly, “the world is what you make of it.” Hearts and flowers.

Rose-colored glasses my ass; you live in a comatose state. I want to smoke what you’re smoking, oh reader. Please. For it doesn’t matter what the words say. Pages blank, you read what you want.

Because apparently, you’re imagination is greater.

My own Fifty Shades

My sexuality is feeling boundless as well as my insecurity.

It is the way of the world those being tethered to one another. Keeping us all locked in a prison of irony and sanctity.

There are so many things I am aching for, from life, and I’m feeling trapped from them. Admittedly, by my own doing.

For the first time in so long I’m wanting to feel the freshness of a new relationship, the clarity of its walls being unknown. Keeping definitions to a minimum. I want and am excited to learn someone new.

 

I am curious and crazed. My book shelf as of late not helping (Fifty shades of Fucked Up).

Illegally Distractible

I’m addicted to something I cannot even feel.

Fifty Shades of Grey

It’s having its effects. Affects. I’m affectedly effected.

I’m transcending to a place where putting the book down is a punishment. Truly, at the base of the eroticism is a romantic wanderlust. I’m there. Seeing the surface and the unwavering under layers.

Soon it will be book 2.

To say I’m currently single would be a lie. To say my expectations have swelled is an understatement.