Ten points to the first person who gets the strawberry mentos reference.
I got a new pair of glasses. Sorry, no, I was given a new pair of glasses. Do you think they fit? Not too loose? Is the prescription right? I worry myself into a blurry, squinted tizzy, I close my eyes sometimes to avoid it all. Because part of me can see the filterless edges around these frames and I’m clinging to that world, the one that exists as it is, the one I’ve always seen.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I write of characters in love, I pour out effusions through their voices, I make them fall over and over again. But I’m sitting here, wiping at lenses and looking for smudges, afraid to feel what I create everyday.
I’ve doubted love before, vacillated between petals of loves me and loves me not, a heart in search of itself. But this isn’t doubt, it’s a begrudging acceptance. Whether it’s convenient, whether it’s pretty or fair, I see you through rose-colored glasses.
The world grows as pink as my cheeks. I’m desperate for more, I’m desperate to be seen and to disappear. You’re roses and strawberry mentos, the sky as it breaks dawn into pieces and signals something new. I’m used to writing for myself, but now I want to write for you, write the words my mouth has a hard time forming. Don’t you get it? Some things are too important for me to leave them out in the air, in the open. The page is colored pink with effusions I’m embarrassed to pen down, but if my heart isn’t content enough to let fictional love go unwritten, it won’t let petals end in even numbers.
She colors my world, she perfumes it. Oh, I’m trying to avoid sounding like every other poet, but there’s a reason we all borrow the same words. A universal telling of a singular feeling. Let me count the ways, let me carry your heart with me, let me brave and suddly see. Is a rose by any other name not the thing with feathers? Hope against reason, a world filtered, or perhaps, brought into focus for the first time. If I loved you less, I might be able to write about it more.
I love you like a letter, tucked between pages. My fingers keep coming back to the spot it holds, checking if it’s really there, keeping track of where I am. Pages come and go, but there you are, a confidant and comfort for every chapter. I love you when I don’t want to love, when the word feels loaded. I love you in bits, then, just a little, through eyelashes if I have to. And even when I close my eyes, I still see pink. You come into my dreams, bearing different forms, but there you are. Though I won’t remember every stroke and stencil when I wake up, you’re still with me, sitting in my mind’s eye, coloring my life.
I don’t know if your eyes will ever grace this page, whether you’d recognize yourself in the cherries that dot the i’s. I haven’t gotten brave enough to write of inside jokes, how pink turns dark, purple and red. And if you ever do read this page, I don’t know what color you’ll see behind the ink. But for me, it’s all pink bouquets and valentine’s hearts. Every view, every letter, blooming and perfumed through rose-colored glasses.
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