I was ready to resolve my story.
There were spirits in my soul,
and I was sending them away with a sleepy wave at a washed out, red front door,
almost pink, from the lashes of life’s endless bartering, that had miraculously come to an end.
I stood by my faded front door,
watching them pass from my land to the world outside,
with nothing but a silent smile to leave behind.
She had just awoken,
tired, tender, turquoise eyes,
busy, boastful, beautiful hands,
stealing the stars from the sky and surrounding them in silver,
crafting them into a circle,
an everlasting promise,
encasing my clumsy left hand,
I took her to the howling winds of the coast.
wrapped in warm scarves and well meaning gloves.
I held her rosy, icy cheeks in hands that had prayed for so long, that they have forgotten how to be thankful,
the kind of hands that have held nothing but empty air and disappearing dreams for too long,
like nothing I had ever seen,
there she was.
She never asked why we went there,
she just smiled, sunshine pouring from the sky as the wind subsided,
every force and feature of this wild Earth was calmed as she beamed at me from the cliffs that had once been conquered by her forefathers.
The story was over,
my pen, dry and lost somewhere behind the sofa.
Life was just pages that I leafed through,
when I felt nostalgic,
and she was all across my body,
all across the wind and rain,
beating down on the Earth, warm and bright.
I stopped writing,
because the story was over,
and my life was a movie.
Three dimensions and cheap cameos from my old creations,
the sort of summer romance drama that should only stay a few weeks,
but shows forever and ever because weepy, hormonal audiences have an appetite for it.
The longer it went on,
the less I was at peace,
because when you’ve spent a life getting by on wistful wishes,
you never quite know how to handle them coming true,
I’m stuck in a stuttering projector,
projecting all the nightmares that came with my daydreams onto my dream girl.
I make mountains out of the things that she mumbles in her sleep,
pinned to the bed by my own paranoia,
fearing the third act,
where everything is changed from the original text,
because some hotshot director thought he knew better and while she still summoned the sun with her smile,
it stayed with me less and less,
because everybody wants “drama” and “conflict”.
no matter how many everlasting promises are painted on my fingers, with ink, needles and silver, stoned rings,
I will never feel sturdy enough to just stay peacefully, and count my blessings.
It doesn’t matter how many times I open the door and point for my ghosts to go,
I will always be obsessed with how nothing ever lasts,
and how nobody was less deserving than me.
She deserves more,
but I selfishly tell her something different,
so that she’ll stay under my jealous gaze,
living under my irrational roof.