Shooting the moon.

Last week has been a blur- a beautiful big shiny blur. If I try describing it, I’ll probably fail and my brain will try analyzing facts and situations and fantasies and pictures.  I’ll probably start moving and shaking and overthinking. So, I refrain and instead revel in the grandeur of transforming reality for a few days. I catch hold of a few shimmering strands curled around my ears and tuck them back safely because I am alive and happy and happier and now I see things differently. My yellow glasses are off and I am unbearably warm. 

so fake, so fucken fake. And, yeah, i had to be stupidly stupidly ignorant. Sometimes this overwhelming stupidity of the self is just too much to handle. And you, you SUCK. Your FACE sucks.

for now there's this intense strange ache and for now i can only pretend to laugh

I can only stare at your tousled head and choke back idiotic tears because they shouldn't exist and i can only humour myself, i can only flee. 


WHY

If i were in love with a stranger, I 
 Would dream of roller coaster rides with him, and
train rides across lonely landscapes where
no words would be spoken and only fingers would brush lightly.
 I would lie on the terrace, drawing patterns, waiting for his letters.
Years would pass, and we would meet suddenly in some rusty city..
 dirty, thirsty and make love. We would scream out our names in the 
  dark waking up lonely, tired vagabonds.
And, suddenly, surprisingly, you came in one delicious summerday and
 my heart stopped.
Everything halted, not turning to poetry and visions melted into this startlingly bright reality
 and I fell. As I unravel you, my searingly beautiful stranger, I never stop.