she wants to be loved by someone beautiful.
<to open your window and breathe in the sweet evening smells, to climb a>
she has dreamt up names and a face; a smile and laughter and sparkling green eyes. she has watched, through a haze of fairy dust, mornings at coffee bean together, sitting opposite him cupping mugs in their hands and not saying anything
because in the mornings at seven, lost in each others company with the synchrony of their movements playing a harmony and the drone of grey-suited office workers as a background accompaniment, what would you like are the only words they need to share.
because when he loves her that much, the fragile things that her English teacher calls language dont need to break and s h a t t e r on the floor or on his back when he leaves in the morning without saying goodbye. because words, she thinks, are unnecessary; when they are in love it will be replaced by touches, and smiles, and brief caresses, and perfection.
one day, she thinks as she sits by the lake stripping flowers of their petals, one day this will happen. her legs are in the water, flowing back and forth and back and forth with the easy rhythmic motion of the current, swirling bits of sky around her toes. her calves plunge into clouds, and if she reaches she can touch the sky and lift it up in her hands, watch it streaming in silver ribbons down her fingers.
but she wont do that yet. first she will find this boy, she will ask him to come with her to the lake, and they will sit beside each other and stroke the sky with gentle fingers, hold hands as they swim through lonely airplanes and the occasional flock of geese. the cold will bite them, but she will be too busy diving into the sky again and again and again to care.
for now she is going to wait, to sit in the autumn chill watching crimson leaves shiver down from ragged trees. for now she is going to stay here by the lake, as pretty as poetry, and wait for her boy to walk past.
<tree when the moon rises, and stare into a blanket of faraway lights>
on Tuesday afternoons she sits curled in her windowsill and dedicates poems to his hair, his eyes, his breath. she writes a paragraph for the taste of him on her tongue: not sugar and not bitter, not sour and not saltyliketears.
(on Wednesday evenings she wonders what beauty would taste like crystallised on her lips.)
and in Literature she writes a story about a boy and a girl who are like angels, who fall
and out of love,
and then into a deeper kind of understanding
that cannot be taken away
by hitting the ground
and her teacher tells her that it was an essay on King Lear and not Romeo and Juliet, part 2. she stares at the wall while Mr Turner drones on about the importance of understanding and being understood, and she thinks that when she finds this beautiful boy being understood will be so natural to them that they wont even have to format everything they say into
within clever introductions, neat body paragraphs, and apt conclusions. when Mr Turner is finished she walks away and leaves the door open behind her, smiles at her friend Nick who is waiting outside the office with his haversack slung over his shoulder and his careful careful grin. Nick takes her books and slides them into the crook of his arm, walks next to her and asks how it went with Mr Turner.
she takes the books back from him, smiling laughing because he's been her friend since forever and she doesnt want to hurt him. but she sees his eyes flicker and his grin slips. she frowns and rakes her teeth over dry lips, because out of all the boys shes met he is the best and she doesnt want to hurt him; he takes walks with her along the beach and doesnt ask his mates along, he listens to her and comes over to dinner and helps her with calculus
and even more he isn't a boyfriend, he doesn't feel her up behind the beach palm trees or in the middle of school hallways or at parties. he isn't a boyfriend and so she doesn't need to break up with him.
(because when her boyfriends touch her they are surrounded by the crashing of the waves and the moans of the gulls, and even if she closes her eyes and ignores the sound of their breath hissing out through hungry teeth, she can't pretend that what they do is soft yellowcandlelit and romantic.
because when she realises that their touch is selfish and rough and fevered, she can't stay with them anymore.)
he asks the question again. she brushes his hand and says, he doesnt understand me, and maybe she means you dont understand me too.
<for six hours, until the sun peeks across the horizon at>
lately shes been searching through alleyways and little side streets for this beautiful boy. on Sunday mornings she fills her Guess bag with lipstick and eyeshadow, then sits on the subway painting her face red and green, gives her eyelashes wings. wandering through the churning city she peers into dark little corners, stares through the windows of dingy pubs squatting on road corners. the men inside watch her with hollow eyes and bristled smiles. she swallows and walks away quickly.
by evening shes sitting at the bus stop waiting for her boy to walk past, watching the sun set and leaning her back against the shelter. the fading light makes her hair glow and her glossy lips sparkle; the boys who walk past talk louder and stare, but after she glances at them she looks away because none of them have the poets eyes, the lovers hands and the dreamers smile she is looking for.
shes made mistakes before,
woken up to an empty bed
rumpled with last nights creases
after falling for the wrong boy with dark-lashed brooding eyes.
shes cried by the lake
for the boys who dont want to be boyfriends,
for the lovers who forget to love --
the boys who stay are another matter; they kiss her and they say they adore her, but when she stands there and lets them hold her hand, lets them pull her to dinner with their parents, she looks at them and cant feel anything, cant find the magic and the high and the instant pinkcherryblossom rush of connection.
but now that she knows what she lacks, shes going to find it somehow. thats why she keeps on looking every Sunday, thats why she sits at bus shelters scribbling lines (I love you like the flower loves the bird, because I cannot survive without you and our kisses taste like nectar─) on the backs of receipts and the palms of her hands. when she gets home she fills notebooks with her bus-stop musings, and when she sleeps she dreams of the poems that he will write with his lips and his tongue and his gentle hands.
on Monday she gets up and realises that she is getting by in everything that she does: history literature calculus life. on Monday she realises that she only really lives in her notebooks, in the black scrawls that scratch across the page and scream brilliant rainbow colours into her mind. on Monday she thinks, Im going to change this, Im going to make this real.
on Monday, she thinks, Im going to find this boy and Im going to make him fall in love with me.
<five am in the morning on another grey day.>
she wants to be loved by someone beautiful because then her life will be a life and not an endless wishing. she wants to be loved by someone beautiful
because then her life will be beautiful too.