i. feels like violet

I would wait for her to leave for lunch first until I decided to see what was I the menu, and spent extra time between my assignments passing torn sheets of paper back and forth like it was a game of 20 questions. Instead of listening to my teacher I payed close attention for the rhythms of her laugh, the flutter of her eyes, the caress of her hands on to everything she touched, because it was the closest I would ever get to her. I felt bad, like I was objectifying her, or making her existence as a human seem superior to mine. But truly when you fall in love with a new song it takes you depths and depths into the explanations of emotion you didn't know you could feel, and I didn't know I could admire someone with the same intentions.

It's like this part of her is independent and headstrong, she does not give a fuck about anyone and she says deep down she feels like a 30 year old chain smoker.She's the type of person who can make you forget how small you are, she's transforms the room into a small space only fit for two people. Holding her hand is as tempting as lighting your first fire, but I'm afraid I'll mess up and run out of matches. I just want to be my best for her, like I'm under contract that if I am a certain height, and charismatic, and funny, that then and only then will we belong together. It's not a matter of me taking a quiz online to see if, "Are they just out of your league?" It's a matter of fact that can't be explained with words. I want to count the time she drifts into the distance, with looks that belong on the walls of doctor's offices and late night shifts at drugstores. There a piece to the puzzle that has been disposed of and is apart of the dreamlike state of adolescence but it seems she has skipped this tile or found it a a vaguely unimportant part of her existence.

I wish I could just begin to understand one thing she can't stop thinking about. Something we could talk about until our voices are hushed by the sounds of barking dogs and cars starting up for the morning shifts. The streets would blow around old CVS bags  and empty liter bottles of soda and our dreams would go with them, but somehow like a piece of a fossil it will be buried one day for someone who it needs to find.


I wrote this really fast because I am trying to keep writing every day no matter what the excuse is, which usually is not a very good one. 

I believe in you nighttime workers and tired eyes--I really do,
Casey