Afflatus

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Brown eyes are underrated.
His were enthralling to the point where I would stare often. I don’t stare at things.
His lips looked soft—always; I want to feel them in the morning just out of bed, or on a cold afternoon, or right before drifting off to sleep. I wish I knew how his lips tasted and felt, what the temporary connection of a kiss was like.
His hair was perfect in all states, a tousled mess. I’d have also liked to feel it on the side of my face, lovingly. I could go on infinitely about the physical attributes that make him attractive, alluring—sexy, but I don’t want to.
You see, his personality was equally as perfect—to me. There was an underlying pretentious tone to much of him. It faded away at the perfect times. He encompassed everything one could want; he was my teenage dream: witty and humorous, strong and loyal, intelligent. Never was there a banal conversation to be had—quasi-philosophical discussions about the future—our future, scintillating discussions over the arts. His words—inspired.
Indubitably intelligent, intricately woven, provoking thought. Simply provocative. I will never forget the grin that awaited my reaction, my response, or the giggle that came right after it was given.
Ignominious actions fueled by deception destroyed the dream, my teenage dream torn asunder. In the wake of the havoc his leaving wrought, I am left to wonder if his perfection was a product of my delusion.
I am left waiting for the day he returns to say something similar to: “I fell in love with the perfect person—the person you aren’t.” Although it seems like a masochistic wish, it isn’t. All I want is the truth. To be freed of the daze his absence leaves, for a little while at least.





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