There Isn't One Princess; Arguably There Are None
Originally Uploaded here
I'm sitting, and I want to write. I want to let the paintings in my head become something, anything. Get out, become at least, in the smallest way, more useful than they are now. If I can impart just the smallest sliver of how I feel to you, perhaps then all this feeling will not be in vain.
I remember your smile. I remember that it was the first thing that made me know I love you. There was nothing particularly magnificent about it, into itself, and, like much of you, was clumsy, a tad ungainly. You asked if it was so infrequent that it might evoke such a strong reaction in me, like the universe opened up in my mind like a colossal flower made of light, like the beginning of everything. The brilliance of a birth of a star where there was only darkness. The answer, in part, was yes, you did certainly frown a lot. But the other answer was simply: I love you.
I want your sly grins, your sidelong disapproving glances, your reserved and somewhat mad opinions. I want to curl my hands into your hands, my legs into your legs, my arms into your arms. I want my nose to rest underneath your jawbone and I want you to squirm uncertainly when I do. I want your nervous passion. I want you to strain to reach the back of your eyes. Like many things I want, this doesn't really exist, not without context. I loathe the context it does exist in, but it doesn't change the want.
Written On: Home Computer