oh, i was

I think she is like the cast off white guitar at the foot of my bed that I never touch but still love, just not like I used to (but did I used to?) see the story always changes and what I say is a lie even if it wasn’t when I started and my self delusion finds new reaches of despair to carry on into the newness here where each fragile possibility rests like wooden splinters on the knife blade and my world is so small after all but it dreams in technicolor largeness, it swims in previous darkness that is present light like twenty twenty behind-my-head sight and I think her cheek smelled like bonfires once or twice or did I just dream that too like I dreamt that I was charming but I was never anything at all just a shadow that crept across a crack in your bedroom wall and now I realize that you were too tall or I was too short and that a hundred “no’s” were something I should have heard but all I needed was your “yes” in those hazelnut eyes that I praised so many times because you always did want blue eyes like mine to look back at you from the glass.