Remember to Breathe

But what I wouldn't have guessed, as we walked out into the velvet-steel night, were those rock-star desires that surface up all of a sudden....

I secretly desired to try heroine once, though it was more of a pipe-dream than a reality, and in the end, I had to admit that I was just another teenager hopelessly in love with Kurt Cobain and the beautiful ghost Nirvana left behind.

It's the image of things that fuel one's desire--that cling to the back of my head in an utter desire for them. Dreaming is what keeps all of us going, and when that's gone, then so is everything else.

Five years ago I had a very particular college life in mind, and five years ago, I wasn't in love and things hadn't gotten so complicated.

And if someone had unfolded the entire story--then what? It probably wouldn't have made much of a difference--I still would have fallen in love and I still would have cried and had my heart broken into tiny pieces.

My days are now a struggle between a regret of what could have been and what it really was: not that special.

And who can convince my hopeful heart of that? What could so audaciously prove the vapidity of every kiss and every hug and every stare?

And even after the desire for that person is long gone, we're still left with these...teasingly cruel ghosts that softly kiss our necks every morning.

I didn't ask for very much, just for the sea-breeze scent, and gazing eyes like two white stars and hopeful sighs.

And I'm still in love--madly. I'm intoxicated, still, by the possibility of that small fairy-tale coming true. Maybe someone else would see past all the Philippe Adec, the fucking hair products and make-up...and realize that I can barely make-it without the hope of something genuine. That it's impossible to live and dream and make the diamond-stars melt on your tongue, without another person to see past everything you've worked so hard to put up.

The guy I dream of has a voice like Chris Carrabba, and could make my heart pause by realizing the small things that I like, or do--like my obsession with espresso. And instead of being too caught up in what one is supposed to do...he'd delight in the imperfections that glue us together, and the fact that I laugh out loud sometimes when I read about the Cold War.

I can vividly imagine a late, cold night walking through orange-lit streets paved with dried leaves from the fall. And I'd take his arm and feel the soft corduroy of his jacket, and I can't imagine thinking of anything else, save how right a moment like that feels.

And in that moment there is no regret and the ghosts have left, and all we have left are the stars and that dusty road ahead, where I have new songs to sing to and new poems to sigh over and new scents with which to fall in love. Late, humid nights with rock-star dreams...

I keep wondering how this story will end.

aeka at 7:50 p.m.