He is...

He is the type of man all others aspire to be; a true leader. His eyes, gentle and honest, mimic the altruism in his soul. His hands are soft and rounded and represent the kind of strength every woman looks for. His arms hold the security of the Roman Empire at its peak. Everything about him is unique yet accessible. He has seen much pain in his life and is stronger for it. Life lessons were not something he failed to grasp or to share with others. He is grounded and stable and understands the ways of the world. His smile is genuine as that of child. He is the type of man any woman would be lucky to call her own.

"Awesome"

“Has anyone told you how awesome you are?” She read the sentence with immediate irony. “Awesome” you say? Oh, how she missed the simplicity of such a word. There were no complications with “awesome,” nothing to read into, no implications. Everyone knew just what it meant to be “awesome.” While the word was seldom in her vocabulary as of late, it still made its way to the front line every now and again. Someone once told her she was far better than the insipid nature of “awesome” and he was completely right. It was a rather colorless word for a vocabulary such as hers. But she liked it. She liked the essence of something being “awesome.” It reminded her of Mark Twain. “My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water.” That was how she viewed the word “awesome,” it was the water of her vocabulary and one can’t make wine without it. “Has anyone told you how awesome you are?” They have now she said with a smile, they have now.

Three Small Words

Three small words, said all too much
And they meant nothing to you
And even if I felt it
With every fiber of my soul
It wasn't enough to tell
Not enough for you to know
The wind, it twists and turns
And clock just keeps on ticking
As I play the situation in my head
All the things that could have happened
All the things I should have said
Repeat like a broken record
Reminding me its through

The bittersweet taste
Of your words on my tongue
Everything we left behind
And all we could become
They circle me in torment as I constantly forget
That everything we ever were is lost in regret
And nothing makes it worth it
And nothing makes it less
And nothing makes it better
And nothing makes it rest
And what should I expect
For love is always blind
And now there's nothing I can do
To get you off my mind

Amory Blane

She had once called him the Walt Whitman of his generation, save his impatience with pens and paper. His words seemed to follow as if from a divine force and he was but the medium. She realized now, he was less the Whitman type and more so the Fitzgerald; more specifically his self manifestation in Amory Blane. Every pain he felt was surely the first of its kind. His love was the purest of this dimension. Each word he spoke was infinately more orignial than its predicessor. Of these things he was sure. Convinced only of his humble superiority, he journeys through life alone and feeble. He thurst for someone to connect with on a deeper level yet seeks only the vanities of the world. Well liked by most, or so he believes, his pride is easily hurt yet. Indeed, he and Amory would have been the best of friends; true mirrors of the other. She remineses of the days she still saw Walt Whitman. It is times like these she wishes he was still here.

The Bar

Her hair was frizzy and dried out, held back by her fake designer shades. Her laugh, almost as fake as her sunglasses, created a cacophony in the bar. She bought a round of drinks for everyone as though we all still ran in the same circle; as though we were all still friends. No one drank. Her fake laugh, tight jeans and baby gap shirt disgusted me. There wasn't a stranger in the bar she didn't brush against. Not a single man at which she didn't bat her eyes. This was her style. And while quite uncomprehensable to me, it was the way of the world for people like her. In this day and age, sex sells and she was fully stocked and loaded.

Losing Him

She lay there in the dark crying. She hated pretending she was better off with out him. There was no reset button for her heart. One can not simply forget to love another. Even after the pain has become too much to bare, it is still impossible to ignore the feelings. A battered women still goes home every night, not in fear, but in love. Even covered in blood, her sanguine heart still loves him in ways she won't soon forget. Any amount of pain is better than the idea of losing him. It wasn't even her heart so much that missed him, but her mind. Rarely does one find such a like minded soul with which he or she might share a view on the world. The comfort of understanding, the freedom with which they spoke, the closeness of it all; that was the hardest to lose.

Tired

She was tired. Tired of hoping, tired of dreaming, tired of wishing. Tired. She didn't want to pick up the pieces and start over again. She didn't want to figure out a new course of action. For once she just wanted everything to fall in line. For something to be easy. But her life had never been that way and she knew better than to be hopeful of it now. Nothing ever went according to plan; it never even went close to plan. Even when the plan was a simple one, it was sure to incure a detour or two. She could see the life she wanted right in front of her eyes. The people who would be her friends, the places she would drink her coffee, the roads upon which she would travel. All of these came to mind so vividly that it was impossible to believe there were any other options and yet in a moments notice it would surely crumble leaving her devastated and lost. Time for a new plan she told herself all the while realizing nothing would ever make her as happy as her original dream. Perhaps that's all she was in this world; a dreamer. A dreamer whose visions would always lie just out of her reach. And it was with this idea in mind and this agony in heart, that she one again began to formulate a new plan.