Overactive Imagination

When the night draws deeply and I close my eyes,
sleep ever seductive, looming just out of sight,
it's your face that I can see, your hair I can smell,
your smile I can feel and your lips, your lips,
that I can taste.

You never have a face, yet I know you,
you have no voice, but I hear you,
hear your sarcasm, your laughter, your passion. 

In your eyes I can see that you see, that you see,
into me, through the smiles and smiling eyes, through to the lie,
the grand facade, the daily masquerade, down to my smiling,

You can call me on my bullshit, you recognize the pain I hide,
you see it and look without flinching, you see the scars hidden in plain sight,
behind blue eyes and mischievous smiles, behind the ever ready laughter,
you see me and your heart breaks, because you see, just how hard I have to fight.

You understand the pride that keeps me going, the love for those around me,
and you understand that each fight I've won by losing and losing only winning,
by refusing to give up, to give in.

Being able to laugh as your dreams turn to ash around you, laughing,
while the tears trace tracks through the smeared soot of every dream ever dreamt.

Laughing as your mind breaks, sanity hinging on happenstance, on chance,
and the angels who've extended their hands to you, while your world burned all around.

You're likely a figment of my imagination, optimism turned masochism to feed a random reader's,
sadism and yet this sick hope is fueled by my finding pieces of this puzzle in the minds and hearts,
of a select few remarkable women.

A few of the many angels, lives that have bisected mine own, during times of crisis and chaos,
the unbelievably good during times that were anything but.

A few that managed to be let in, to leave a mark, to touch upon a fiercely guarded heart,
a heart shared too freely when the potential arises, potentially and held in check, sometimes,
when it should have been presented eagerly, bedecked with a bow and road map to the inner workings,
of my cynically optimistically masochistically romantic mind. 

But we live and we learn, the mistakes of the past burning unique little scars into you,
special learning aides, teaching us not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday,
and still we sometimes do, because who can lie better to us than ourselves,
the easiest lies to believe are ones we tell our self.

As they are often the lies we most badly have a need to believe.

And so I close my eyes, content for now simply having you exist in the spaces behind blue eyes,
hoping that I will see, a smile or the eyes, that cause a spark and draw me magnetically, a starstruck moth,
to the bonfire of your radiance, dumbstruck and dumbfounded, sacrificing myself upon the altar of your flame,
hoping to see, you with eyes open and mind prepared, hoping you see me, too.



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