Her majesty treats shy animals with caution, and folds confidence maps into ill-porportioned Valentines. What I always notice about her is her eyes. The way she casually bends her sight into consciously orchestrated glances, the precious dance of sporadic vision. Maybe she is not entirely careful about it. Maybe my paranoia breeds suspicion in full-fledged distraction. Maybe when I start making sense, I'll be able to bare my soul to her. Or at least how I feel. How she makes me feel.
Her shape moves in shadows, and I long to touch her wings, in hopes to find solace in the faulty flattery of her gaze. Her awkward pauses in nervous smile patterns compliment her reality, sculptured in fragile porcelain. I bare scars in my shield (flaws in my mold) and turn windows into brick walls. I am alone because I never learned how to open the door and give out house keys. I never learned to laugh at myself without laughing with myself. It's a train's path you cannot get out of, believe me. I shed skin and sleep, in hopes that, in her, I can find the comfort that I barely understand.
I am sure she thinks me odd (weird, strange). I am sure I feel rejected. I am sure it will only get worse. Afterall, it's her we're talking about. I think too much. I make no sense. I don't really attempt to. I often just let the words find their way out. I am not responsible for the damage they cause. I foolishly tried to win her with words. You can't hide behind the paintings. I hope I reach her in time. Softly, we blend into our impressions and melt into a new conversation. Eventually, we'll meet for the first time. Until then, I'll play it by ear (in hopes that I haven't been too obvious), and live my life one month at a time.
