CarolynNocturnal

Dear boy-with-the-mozart-heart, I find myself comparing your eyes to Christmas morning- looking into them and feeling the comfort seeping out of their muddy depths and into my chest- the look you give that practically reaches out through the bite-sized gap between us to curl my lips up into a smile. I'll say your name in that sing-song way you like so much- the letters metamorphosing from breath into melodies like butterflies and I'll watch as you turn them into music- dissecting my words and labeling them as half notes and whole notes and meanings I've never quite understood but it's practically your second language, other than the morse c

Maybe I haven’t known you since Pre-K or seen you in your diapers but I know how your fingers twitch when you’re nervous and I know how your eyes scrunch up at the corners when you’re upset. We may not have shared crayons in Kindergarten but we’ve shared the same breath for a few moments- those moments starting off as our eyes locking across a room and ending up as minutes with me in your lap- kisses regurgitating all the words we’ve said at least a billion times but my ears still beg for in a steady chant of more. No, I may not have sat next to you in the 2nd grade but I know how warm your hand feels against m

I am a reflection in a shop window looking at the world outside through opaque lenses dotted with rain drops and yellow orbs of distant street lights in a city reduced to slow motion breaths and side glances I am a glass of watered down brandy (cheap because your pockets aren't as heavy as they used to be) at the end of a 9 to 5 day, reducing reality to a haze of jazz records and slow dancing, shifting back and forth on your feet- left, right, left, arms loosely hugging your waist as the world comes to a stop and gravity tips the odds in your favor (for once) I am a restaurant on the far side of town, that post-depression building on the co

I'll meet him by the ocean. It'll be cold and he'll be wearing a flannel hat and overalls and we'll share stories over steaming coffee and warm smiles. And we'll talk. He'll tell me how he's been working since his ma died in '09 and I'll admire the gruff black (and the occasional gray) of his beard. The light from the fire will glow in the coal of his eyes and he'll share secrets with a stranger because that's just what he does- he's too nice and welcoming and it'll make me smile every time- his voice booming over everyone else's in the bar. It'll be nice for those first few months; returning home to his little cottage by the bay and watchi

She was the girl with the doe eyes and mile high hair bows- the girl with the baby curls and pink ribbons who sat at the front of the class because learning new things was her favorite thing to do- the girl who could dream with both eyes open and saw through every unhappy ending. She had a blinding smile and shy eyes- dark lashes contrasting with porcelain cheeks as faces flush and thoughts swim in the chocolate of her eyes. He had a Roman nose and sharp eyes and an endless supply of harsh remarks and bitter realities- mouth curved down into a frown that seemed to get more permanent with age and fingers curled into angry fists as horror film

What if perfect meant afternoon picnics that easily fit into our schedule and mornings of lazy lovin' that made you late for work every day or the whole house smelling like vanilla flavored coffees and sweet kisses? Does it mean laughter and sunshine smiles that brighten stormy skies? Does that mean each memory's supposed to be a brew of shy looks and dreamy eyes and sweet glances across café tables that (magically) blend together to form a cup of delicious intoxication that bring us back together every time we stop and remember? Because to be honest… Perfection would leave us behind in a lonely field feeling hungry and wanting a

Maybe the door looks better from the other side but it seems to take another piece of me every time it closes behind you. Though, I'm pretty sure you've already taken everything I have left, but when words bombard across this battlefield we've been building for weeks now, the fact never seems to cross your mind. (Or do you just enjoy taunting me with slammed doors and taillights and unfinished sentences?) Your eyes used to be free and pure and sky tinted, but it pains me to look into them now. Shame builds up in the blue like storms clouds and it almost makes me want to ask what's wrong. But that's a question, and questions usually bring ans

You sang to me one night- voice slow, and soft, and smooth with a slight hint of a southern drawl, and it was wonderful- with your hazy eyes shyly offering an escape, and I took it without hesitation. Always so polite, with notes written on your hands as you held mine. I love when you do that, you know, when you pull me close- breaths mingling, and fingers tangled in my hair. Shyness crept from you in waves like sonar and I decoded your hidden messages with no problem. But dear, your touches never really needed that much convincing on my part anyway. I remember how your eyes reflected our meal that night- all black, and hollowed out with a

 you are cotton candy and sticky fingers- living at the fair until it leaves, and giving it your heart on the way out. addicted to bright lights, and face paint, and kettle corn, and late nights spent throwing up the day, and screaming until your lungs ached and chest seized. i'd stand and watch you from the side lines, camera in hand- attempting to capture your smile mid laugh as you spun round, round, round on a roller coaster that you never seemed to get off of. and i guess i shouldn't be surprised- you saw the world as one huge broken puzzle that was missing just one, little, measly piece, and putting everything back together again was

I still wear my hair to the side, and keep my hands tucked in my pockets. My skin is still cold, and my eyes are still red, and the bed often feels too empty to sleep in. But I still do sometimes- just to feel that lack of presence, and that familiar dip in the mattress, and utter sense of 'something's missing' as a painful reminder. And it's okay. I'm okay.  There's no need to worry. The air's still clean, and there's not a single trace of your cigarette smoke left anywhere in entire the house. But I miss it sometimes. Maybe the smell of nicotine and unhealthy addictions wasn't exactly your best quality, but… it was you . All