There is a Light

Everyday is a choice and I choose to sleep with one light on- not because I am afraid of my truth, but because I am afraid of yours. I write songs with my guitar and there is almost always a cold cup of coffee on my bedside table. There are words all over my room- things strung together by voices I have never heard in an elegance that I never can seem to achieve. I look younger than my twenty-one years and it serves me well in some lots of life and not so well in others. I’ve a look of innocence that would fool any stranger and I have the mouth of a sailor. My heart has been broken for a year and nine months and I would be a liar if I said I did not think about him every single day. I have romantic hopes of a poetic, long-haired, musically inclined boy sweeping me from the corner of coffee shops where I often find myself and into the throws of injurious love. I wish I could say I am not silly enough to believe the world could work that way. I am the happiest person you will ever happen upon and there are one thousand things I could tell you about myself but I will discuss you for as long as you please. Beauties like you, that sit in curious places in town and engage and answer my questions, carry my soul and all souls and the light that I cannot sleep without.

Black Coffee

You never did like black coffee, and that was a problem. You like yours sweet; weak. I think you like a lot of things that way: submissive and spineless; pretty in all the wrong ways. You like things that are pretty in the night; things that get their lustrous glow from shadowy lamp shades in dark corner booths. Things that are pretty in a soft focus; the sharp edges blurred and left to the imagination under insufficient street lights. Forbidden love tastes the sweetest until you succumb to it. Nothing tastes more bitter than the truth. That all natural, raw, bitter, realization of the truth. But you never did like black coffee, and that was the problem.

Hearts and Broken Parts

It’s a funny thing about a broken heart. You find who you are and who you’re not; what have you have and what you don’t; what you’ve gained and what you’ve lost; what you thought you were, and who you have no choice but to become. It’s a funny thing about a broken heart; it shatters you into a million little pieces- one piece for every time he gave you butterflies and you think to yourself, how will I ever be whole again? It’s a funny thing about a broken heart; those pieces never quite fit back together exactly as they were. Each time you love, you give away some of yourself, and there’s a tiny piece that you will never see again. It changes who you are; how you are; what you are. Your heart and your ability to love are forever, not taken, but altered- perhaps for the better. Scott Fitzgerald said, “There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice”. You know why? Because it’s never the same heart twice.

Polaroids

It’s always uneven, but it seemed pretty even to me on that August night when I taught you to dance beneath the moon. You in a tux, I in a dress, the last ones to leave; the last ones left. Just you, just me. My car, the stars. We danced around in cirlces, and you let me stand on your feet so I didn’t get rocks in my shoes. It was the most precious show ever seen by the North Georgia star-filled sky. That’s my snap shot; my true love aged polaroid, framed in my heart, and used to compare against the others who’d come along long after this dusty town had swept you into someone else’s arms. They say it’s uneven, and it is uneven, but I guess I just didn’t notice; not until that midnight slowly faded into the grey dawn. You were gone when the sunlight filled my window, and there was nothing I could do.