The Fairy Door Said “Pull”, But I Pushed

“I know that the universe loves me. I know it’s unknown, but I’m not afraid.” – Graham Nash

Your accusations are my freedom flowing from your mouth…

What’s the story, melancholy?
Not your favorite flower anymore
Doesn’t smell as sweet
Tickles your nose
Suddenly in uncomfortable ways

The girl I knew, or thought I knew, was magically tragic, viciously delicious, wistfully blissful… and better in real life than my memories or dreams or imagination could ever be.

Sneezing unpleasingly
You’re a honeybee, honey
Flitting from flower to flower
No time to linger
You have to experience life

The worst thing is when it all seems fine on paper, and when you first talk, and then something comes up completely unanticipated that makes it heartbreakingly untenable, for now, anyway. Maybe for good.

You would do anything dangerous
Except fall in love
With someone who loved you back
Aloofness and distance are binary
You either are or are not aloof
You either are or are not distant

Half the things I said to you were surreal. But some of it was sensuous.
Sometimes when a person leaves an impression, we spend a lot of time looking for versions of them.

Love is variable, day to day, hour to hour
It waxes and wanes like the moon
That isn’t certain enough for you
The more someone trusts you enough to love you
The more uncertain you become

Does the mirror, perhaps, let me look within? My mental images, my inner child, my conscience. My demons? Or just my reflection looking back at me. Writing words is narrating the antics of demons and unicorns frolicking in the playground in my head. Skies are beautiful, at least until it’s gray horizon to horizon.

Wrong time, wrong place
Wrong person? I shudder to think
You know it’s alone o’clock somewhere
When you’ll cross the border
Between saline and sand

I hope it wasn’t painful for you. I don’t wish that. Words are magic spells. They can astrally project us to people or places in the past or future. But we can never really know anyone, can we? We can come close, perhaps, like a ghost brushing past us in shadows.

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