Same Mistakes

'My friends are such a drag, they think I'm such a freak.
They want to go to bed, I want to stay up late.'

There's a certain discontentment that lingers overhead when you lose something you never quite had. Instead of memories that have momentary flaws and occasionally words you wish had never been spoken, you have the wondrous 'what if's. You have the day dreams that never became reality. You have the wishful thoughts and the scenarios built one by one by gutless visionaries. Instead of reality, you get lost in an imaginary land you created, with a person you've made up within the safety of your own mind.

This person you've created can't hurt you, if you don't let him. He won't say something, then take it back. He won't reach out, only to pull away. He won't shrug you off, ignore you and leave you hanging in the dust. In your mind, he only nurtures. In your mind, there's only car rides with silly arguments over radio stations and CD's. There's only momentary lulls where neither of you know who's going to kiss whom after the movie ends. There's the look he gives you when you say something that hits so close to home. There's only comfort. There's only happiness. There's only star-filled night skies and forehead kisses.

But lying within this world of 'what if's and 'maybe's, there are things I'm certain of.

I'm certain that I'll never forget the moment I mindlessly laughed to myself then caught you looking at me, one hand on the steering wheel. And as we were stuck in traffic, your boyish smile lit up your caramel eyes and you muttered for me to hear, but maybe not for me to analyze as much as I have, "I've never heard you giggle before."

And I'm certain that sitting on our friend's couch, watching as our group made fools of themselves with Star Wars playing in the background, as we pretended not to notice how entangled we were, I really did enjoy the feel of your fingertips grazing my knee. I watched as your hand was hesitant with the movement and I had wanted nothing more than to lace our fingers together, but truth be told, there was something comfortable about just the light touch, with our arms linked instead.

So I'll say that, yes, if lust had taken over and doubt and hesitance were put aside, I would have allowed a trail of kisses to start upon your neck and move up along your jaw. I'll admit that eventually, I'd have let the comfortable touch become a heated bout of 'crescendo,' where our lips met once, twice, three times quickly, until they hardly parted, unless we were desperately in need of air. Our friends would have fell into a dark haze, your teasing about my lack of Star Wars knowledge would be muffled by the start of something, anything at all. And maybe, just maybe, things would have panned out differently. I mean, what if?

But we haven't talked since. And maybe, you'd be surprised to hear what I have to say. And maybe I'd regret ever suggesting that we talk.

In the end, I'm certain of a few moments. But I'm crazy for my world of 'what if's and 'maybe's.

Don't Watch Me Dancing

'She'd rather be scarred than be scarred with love.'

Imagine us.

Imagine us in the air, floating towards the stars. Imagine us laughing as we glide past comets, planets, black holes wanting to suck us into an eternal doom. Imagine us, blazing by the sun. Imagine us gazing down at Earth. The Pacific Ocean is the size of your thumb, South America hides behind my index finger. We spin in a circle and I'm blinded. Your lips catch mine and I'm no longer focused on where we came from, but where we're going.

Imagine us.

Imagine us in your hunk of junk car. Imagine us laughing as we pass by the mountains in the middle of nowhere. Imagine you, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel to your favorite song. Imagine me, reading you passages from Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby. Imagine us, arguing over directions, growing frustrated, rolling our eyes, scoffing at one another. Imagine us, stealing kisses as we pass over a border, finding love in two places at once.

Imagine you.

Imagine you in your stupid beanie and your one of many plaid shirts. Imagine you, voicing off the teachings of many ancient Greek philosophers. Imagine you, doodling in your small notebook, a cigarette hanging from your lips as your brow furrows in concentration. Imagine you telling me, 'It's not about a forever or a promise or a future. It's about now. It's about what will become a memory. It's about us.' Imagine you kissing me.

Imagine me.

Imagine me in your favorite dress. Imagine me applying that cherry red lipstick. Imagine me speaking feverishly about the stars, claiming them to be just retired light. Imagine me speaking of the moon and how envious it is of the sun. Imagine me, in my favorite lace underwear, feet against the coffee table as I scribble in my notebook, thoughts I could never share with you. Imagine me telling you, 'I just want to feel something. There's a constant numbness and it's more tiring than anything else. I just want to feel. Help me feel.'

Imagine us.

Or don't.

Beginnings

Watch things on VCR's with me and talk about big love.

There's something so simple and euphoric about touching. Just the momentary feel of someone's skin meeting yours, may it be a kiss on the cheek or a comforting hand on the arm. There's so much to be said through small gestures that involve hands, it's almost as if conversation is barely needed. I use conversation to justify, but I dream of a world where nothing needs to be excused.

It's the way sometimes all you need is a hug. It's the way you watch others interact; the couple kissing by the lockers, the best friends whispering in each other's ears, the light shove a girl gives to a guy she's flirting with. And oh, how she wants to pull him back, interlock their fingers and watch the muscles in his forearms contract every time he gives her hand a light squeeze. She wants to stare into his yellow daisy speckled eyes, but she's too shy. She wants to kiss the corner of his mouth, brush her black-painted fingertips through his dirty blonde hair. She laughs at his jokes, rolls her eyes at some, but all she wants to do is feel his hot breath against her cheek, the silence overwhelming them as touch takes over. Their hands become the conversationalists.

Brushing her hair from her eyes, he's saying, "You look so pretty tonight."

She nestles her cheek against his hand and she's saying, "I want to stay in this moment."

He lets his other hand pull her body closer and his eyes give away, "You're mine."

Her forehead rests against his and in one bold move, her lips meet his; agreement, "I'm yours."

But this is all in her head. Empty words are passed around and she listens carefully, but her mind is filling in the gaps. The movements that would matter, the unsaid statements she dreams, she fills with the ideas of what could have happened instead, if she had just pulled him back in. But it's done. He's still wearing his boyish half smile, but he's walking to his locker and she's watching out of the corner of her eye.

The steps down the hallway that would echo in her mind had it just been them say, "Dream on."

She and I want to live in a world of touch.