The Inters Section

You make me the good kind of nervous, always have and always won't. Sometimes I wish I was a scarecrow so that I could be ignored and taken into account at the same time. That way I could be some kind of fly on the wall without being considered the gawker.

There was no one as stunning as you. I was acutely aware that somewhere out there in the world, in a world that had no time for my silly patchworked notions of beauty, that there may be someone who could give you a run for your money. But the thing of it was, we were both very poor and I didn't care too much for their world.

My straw hair was graying too quickly for my liking and I clocked my numbered days by the route you walked just after dawn. It gave me something to dread and look forward to at the same time. I was unclear of my compulsive need to dance with your dichotomies but I indulged myself nonetheless.

Would it be rude if I asked you to wear a different dress? I wanted to believe that there were imperfections there, that somehow in a different shade and a different light, you were not the goddess I had imagined you to be.

But these were my wooden pipe dreams, nailed to this cross, in this field, where I was expected to define solitude. And not shockingly, when you were gone and had turned the corner beyond the ridge, you made me love and loathe it all the same.