StarZ

He stared into perplexity as her eyelashes closed over the orbs of her eyes.

"This isn't it," he whispered thoughtlessly, "this isn't what we ever thought."
A feathered willow branch kissed her cheek as she drifted into dreams and 

while he talked she thought of the sound of his voice. 

Within his barrier there was a wall that covered more than his desires and 

all of his love. Somehow she could tear it down, with pleas or lies or

kisses planted atop his unbelief. Her fingernails grazed his rough knuckles

and he shivered with some unknown emotion that she wished with all her

heart that she could discover and capture within her, keep it forever in a

jar like an innocent firefly prisoner in an old, used plastic cup that she 

drank out of before it became a useful trap. His eyes were less than a river

and more of a black, all-seeing vortex that sucked in her thoughts without

a consent form to control her emotions and read her ideas to everyone in

the room before she could stop him. So she closed her eyes and he stared

at her transparent eyelids, waiting, wishing, hoping to glance that part of her

that he only could see and violate.

I keep looking for things

Where is the shock?

A flash of lightning, a spark of light and hope, a lingering feeling of tingles.

White light spreading through consciousness, erasing all doubt, fear, hopes, 

Doing spring-cleaning on your imagination and tap-dancing on your creativity.

It stops to stir your mind into a stew of mystery meats and lost words while

running ovals around the index of your memories. 

Leaving nothing but the mush which we call 

a brain.

Where is the excitement?

Racing faster than adrenaline through every muscle, tightening your grip,

leaving sweat on under your eyes and in every crack of your palm.

Your eyes search for something reasonable, but can only digest

COLOR
COLOR 

COLOR

Colors of flushed faces and crowded bodies, colors of sweat and 

anxiety and love.

Where is the expectation?

The hope of a butterfly hatching or the standards of every Mormon girl.

The yellow-gray muck of failure mixed with the navy-blue-brown of 

disappointment. Its nothing you thought it would be and everything you 

hoped it wouldn't. It finds the space between your heart and those

hairs in your nose that grant you smell and it cuts it into pieces so 

you are left with nothing but a nose and cold, wet veins.

You can find it here if you look hard enough, tucked beneath the 

lukewarm of my coat pocket, next to the old gum and bobby pins.

It's here, though silent, haunting a silent girl with nothing but reddish 

hair and a knack for the unusual. It's friends with the lice and fleas and 

likes to pester at one's skin and becomes a tapeworm digging into 

the flesh of you. 

Where is the cure?