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Indian Hair

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You are intangibly close as my careful right arm reaches it's hand behind the other in nervous habit. I've always been cautious to speak courageous words around you, and countless times I've blamed it on your hair...how it remains a perfect complexity without applying any worrisome effort; it constantly reminds me of how inconsistent the rest of life can be. Realizing that everything which exists must have a harmonious counterpart, I never stop thinking of how fittingly your peanut butter eyes would compliment mine. But supplicating to your angelic glance can't possibly ensure the transmission of every dream I've documented about you and your every imperfection(to which I repeatedly commit suicide trying to remain contrastable, because I like what a contradicting possibility we create)from my mental impediment to your understanding. At times, usually more prevalent when I'm alone in bed reproducing lonesome thought, I envision the completion of our bodily states, lost inside colossal city forms. Running along lightless streets, our shoes printing brisk signatures onto the polluted pavement. We are flying free. But I soon awaken, and I discover that I must someday pace those city streets without you, sprinting down seedy avenues, as the ruffled sound of the nostalgic metropolis forever screams for you and your presence. I'd make my way up to the heart of it all(from underground)searching for some landmark that may look even remotely similar to your house. And as the raw skyline-whimsical strips of blueberry cirrus cloud, gorgeous and outlasting-teases the prelude of night, I'd post up against that old edifice(mindful insomniac desire)and give in to the beat of that beautiful, bustling downtown twilight. Being miles away from your hair, I'll become a horizontal fixture in the vertical state of grass blades, arms extended, as fingers ween out to the celestial chance of someday strumming your million musical strands.



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