Dwelling On What I Couldn’t Be

He fell in love with the girl who weaved sparks into mundane conversation. I can’t blame him for that.

She walked as if an orchestra played in her head. Lost in her own adventure. She owned a beauty that could only be compared to Medusa.

She owned a voice that ran smoothly in ribbons, like honey off a spoon. A voice that could be pressed into a record and played until it wore out.

However, there’s silence in her step. Measured and calculated. As if life perched on her shoulder.

If she let you get close, and there was something about her that made you want to, she smelled like the chaotic calm morning after the storm.

You couldn’t capture her in a photograph without a smile chiseled from flesh. Fortunately the camera can’t capture the color of disappointment in her eyes.

Even so, with her words, she could hypnotize you into believing you were the most important person alive. The whole world could melt and she’d hardly notice, still holding onto your words. Felt like you could genuinely impress her with whatever random nonsense interested the speaker.

He fell in love with a type of magic that I could never have. You’ll never hear me compare myself to another. She’s the Queen of her realm and I’m the queen of mine. But sometimes, in the wet calm after the storm, I wonder why he couldn’t see my magic.