it was not ******, but slow
and built on itself over time
a little more sorrow each day
a little more pain to suffocate on
not too much, not so to be obvious

but it seems the soul is more of an abstract thing
that can be revived over time with the right words
and happenings
zombie-like but with much less gore
there are the first traces of joy instead.

The story takes place on a September day
back in that simplistic time of freshman year,
drenched in the sun and sweat
of late summer in the afternoon,
voices calling and adolescent bodies intermingled,
the stench of hot lunch and ****** conversation.
All of us, stuck and contained
in the most undesirable place to be
on an uncomfortably sunny day.

There were seagulls scavenging
and circling overhead above the Quad,
picking at garbage cast aside, scattered along the floor,
or stranded around nearby trash bins,
as if our school wasn't filthy and ghetto enough.

In a bored state, I sat
and watched them from within the cafeteria
occasionally looking over at Russell, Pokemon cards in his hand,
as he conversed with his nerd friends in nonsensical terms and phrases
and as the tediousness of the situation mounted
my patience did just the opposite
so without a word, I picked up my things
and left.

Now, before this sudden turn of events,
I have to mention
that you and me,
we hadn't spoken to each other in a long time,
not since school began,
which sounds like utter blasphemy to me now,
but this is what I remember
and this is what I realized that day
and if it was otherwise, I don't think
seeing you again would have made my breath
catch in my throat
or my heart palpitate excitedly
to the extent that it did.

Do you remember those benches in the Quad,
encircled by small trees and draped in their shade?
Many times after this very day,
I would stand on the other side by the cafeteria
and find myself gazing across the stretch
at where I knew I would probably find you,
distracted by a desire so tremendous
to be where you were.

Perhaps chance had wanted me to stumble upon the place
or luck found in itself the need to grace me with its presence
enough to allow me
to spot my two friends headed toward those benches
as soon as I walked out of the cafeteria doors.
And so I hurried to them
as relief flooded through my system
because I wouldn't have to endure being with Russell
nor have to walk around for the remainder of lunch
friendless and without a companion;
so thank goodness Russell decided to nerd out that day,
thank goodness I had not developed a love for Pokemon
or had even a vague, minuscule knowledge of its terminology.

As I approached those benches for the first time,
nostalgia filled the atmosphere in waves
and it mingled with the draping heat of summer
so that the result was electrifying.
My eyes glanced over all those I had seen so frequently
during our middle school years
but had not seen as of late,
and then I spotted your curly-haired head
and forgot everything--
all the events that had culminated to that moment--
because suddenly, there you were.

I staggered ahead to greet you,
leaving my friends behind without so much
as a glance.
And then all at once, I was swathed
in your quiet murmurs
and magical blend of words.
Smiles and laughter inflated my lungs and
seeped into my thirsty veins
as I felt time wrap upon itself
so that it became one single, solid, whole piece
and I could not believe that,
for about a month or so,
we had not spoken;
that the profound sinfulness of such a thing
never once crossed my mind.

After the bell rang
and we parted to go our separate ways,
I found I needed to see you again,
I definitely had to see you again
because I had not been touched by words
that warmed and tickled my insides
like those that escaped from your lips
in an incredibly long time,
nor had I felt so fresh, so at ease in anyone's presence
as I did in yours.
You filled me with a gentle, sweeping sense
of happiness and joy
that I came to crave intensely as much as I did your being
which is just a more embellished way of saying
that I realized I loved you that day.

Young girl in blue, why must she be so pretty?
With thick copper curls and eyes to match
Still, someone so wicked has forsaken her yet
And so unwillingly does she sell her pure body

In grievous strain, how she sits on *****, stone steps
Head bowed down with chest wide open
Hands gripping at cold, goose-bumped flesh
Bruised from nights spent with a rough customer

And people may curse and stare on London's hostile streets
But still her eyes hold their defiant gaze
So young is she to have such a bitter stare
Does she know how my heart aches for her?

Young Josephine,  girl in blue,
Nearer below, to the ground every hour
And soon, she thinks, she'll let her heart freeze
Numb to feeling already, she might not even hurt
Oh, what a beautiful mess on the streets she'd be

So please, quick, someone come whisk her away!
Save her from the chilly air and save her from the pain
That shatters her so every time a man looks her way
She shudders beneath her pale skin

Oh, people of all ages, here, come and look!
See how she cowers in dark alleyways
How she shrinks and swallows her withered soul whole
So that only she has the key to pent-up sorrow

Strong, so stout, this unfortunate girl
So helpless is she in deep poverty
Dear man and lady, spare your vile thoughts and high virtues
And rescue her from this misery

Take her home, go now, raise her well!
Encase her in love from in and out
and rub her frozen, goose-bumped skin
Happiness, I swear she will bring

I think too much, this I have always known
for to live alone in solitude, one is blessed with thoughts as companions.

And perhaps this is optimal:
my thoughts do not mutter harsh words behind my back or even to my face
but comfort me in soothing tones like strokes
and sing-song verses that hug the walls of my mind pleasantly

My thoughts choose to show me beauty,
instead of the stark rawness of the world outside the frames of my head
they've conversed amongst themselves
of the sleek sheen of wetness on lemon leaves after a morning shower
or when they are most inspired,
of the smooth gradient of sky swathed by sunset
and allow me to watch it all, a front-row ticket to their splendid imaginings

Always, they will sigh contently at art and literature
and then feast wildly in the presence of knowledge
They accumulate bits of information like starving kittens,
so eager are they, I am left breathless

(There certainly are much worse points to them too,
but my thoughts threaten me so, in silence, I'll refrain.)

I've once imagined this scene:
yellow sunlight streaming through a glass window;
and from it hangs green, plaid curtains
and the tablecloth of the dining table is plaid too.
In my hands I hold a cup of coffee, steaming,
and beside me, a fresh croissant laid on a crisp, white napkin.
From my kitchen, I gaze out the window at the tranquil street.

There are no cars--it's a Sunday after all--
but there is a boy comfortably seated,
cross-legged on the grass, on the other side,
and in his lap, he balances a sketchbook on one leg
while his arm rests on the other.

I can't see what he is drawing, but I reason it must be beautiful
because he is focused on it so intently;
I can tell in the way he grips his pencil.

Over time, I think I will fall in love with this boy,
but I will be too afraid to walk onto the other side of the street
so he will draw alone every Sunday and won't know he has an admirer.

Perhaps he doesn't see it
but there is a beauty to him
and I have been lucky enough to catch it in my hands
and claim it for my own
before any of the other girls have.
This beauty burns brilliantly in his smile
and in the way he gently laughs,
how his eyes soften as his lips curve
so that inside me, I am whispering, "Do it again."
There is the low murmuring of his voice,
unheard to others but heard to me,
and its beauty is in the way it tickles my ears
and travels down to the bottoms of my feet,
makes me crave and suspire.
I have seen beauty in the way his eyes twinkle,
whether in light or shade;
and they have, many times, drawn in my awed, steady gaze
as he sits unaware of his charm and allure.
His hair, too, is a messy nest of beauty;
how often have I let my fingers run through it,
its texture and curls that, to me, are perfection,
and are a symbol of the young man that I love.
There is beauty in the lips from which he says, "I love you"
and the arms that caress me in an embrace,
fingers that touch my cheeks
and intertwine themselves when he holds my hand.
How blessed am I that his beauty is also mine.