How it'd be ...

He’d never sleep on the couch, because he just can’t stand not dreaming near me.

He’d say, everyday, just how much in love with me he’ll always be.

He’d say the perfect thing to lift me when I’m low.

He’d always kiss me a second sooner than I’d need it.

He’d hold me close at every appropriate moment.

He’d make love to me passionately, effortlessly, and frequently.

He’d never let me fight with worry, or insecurity.

He’d make certain I was sure, that he is sure, that this is the way it will always be. 

"Courtney"

I didn’t want to like her.

But I suppose you already knew that.

I told myself she’d be just like all the others--

            a flippant, dim-witted, twit.

She’d be short, and skinny, with fair skin, long curly hair, and she’d be trendy.

Certainly, she’ll have pretty eyes, a perfect smile, and less than average intelligence.

She’d definitely be irritating, intellectually devoid, and emotionally replete.

And of course she would worship you for reasons she can’t herself explain.

She just does,”just because”.

… My best friend’s girlfriend.

I really didn’t want to like her.

And I thought she’d make that easy.

Of course she would hate my surprise arrival—

            How could I just drop in so unexpectedly?

She’d make me feel unwelcome in her house, make me stay elsewhere.

Obviously because she’s frightfully insecure, she knows I was here first, a fact she won’t forget.

She’ll surely make it difficult, painstaking, and awkward,

just because she can.

She won’t admit why; “Just because”.

… My best friend’s girlfriend.

I didn’t want to, but I do adore her.

And of course, you knew I would.

I probably should apologize for my hesitancy—

            I was unwelcoming, standoffish, and mean.

We both know I don’t know any other way to be but cynical, and suspicious.

Apparently, because I am intensely apprehensive, considering that she might be less than perfect.

Not for just anyone, and not “just because”.

… Because she’s my best friend’s girlfriend. 

Untitled

It isn’t how often things are said;

                but in how well those words are spoken.

Not how often affection is felt;

                but in the genuineness of that emotion.

It isn’t the illusion of a constant smile;

                but the joy of a smile needed.             

Not the fantasy I create inside my mind;

                but the reality that my cynicism has been defeated.

Its isn’t the need for some kind of bliss;

                but my desire to stay so blissfully delighted.

Not my expectation of what tomorrow might bring;

                but hope that tomorrow will be wholehearted.

Not about the "Benjamins"

I dreamed once of rain showers made from paper, green.

Red and blue synthetic fibers woven around numbers and dead men’s faces; blank expressions.

Falling from grey skies, these empty gazes collect at my feet; they promise nothing.

They stare, tauntingly as if shouting: “you can’t touch me”…

And as I reached to gather my fictitious fortune, the faces, they fall away like grains of sand from my tightly clenched hands.

“Is there never any end?” I weep.

Then,I am warmed.

Awakened by the sun in all her glory she reminds me:

Money, does not an untroubled soul make. 

So, while I'm at it ...

I thought I'd go ahead and post some other stuff. Keep reading :)

She's Thinking on writing ...

  I’m a big fan of the comma. I enjoy playing the puzzle game with her. She fits in places she shouldn’t, and belongs in places she doesn’t really need to be. She reminds me of me.

  I think I want a typewriter. Something about the sound is much more fulfilling than that of keys on a computer. Mistakes can’t easily be corrected on a typewriter, as they can on a computer. Once you commit the key to the page, it’s practically impossible to erase.  I like that idea of commitment.

First random thinking ...

                I think I may owe my ability to write to my mother. She has always been an avid reader, though not what one might consider a remarkable mind. She is known for her remarkable heart, however. Always willing to help when others are in need, and also often, when others are not.

                I have vivid recall of mother; sitting against pillows on our ugly teal-green hide-a-bed, lost in a book, never understanding how lost I was, sitting alone on the living room floor. She didn’t pay me much attention when I wanted it. Now, when I don’t, she seems very dutiful.

                I often look back on my childhood, and wonder what it was precisely, that conjured the woman I have become. I’m still not certain of who I am, or what may become of me, but I am sure that there is something having to do with my past that created this thing I am today.  In truth, I am not certain I want to know what that was.

               

                I fancy myself a writer. I am writer with a high vocabulary, but a writer with a keen inability to spell; a writer, nonetheless.  Spelling is overrated.

               

                This page has become something of random thought. Some sort of garble that might make sense later. Right now, it is just a collection of thoughts, to form sentences, that hopefully, will form something worth reading.