fluttering wings,
magic dusted off the shelves
where i kept archives
of each one that came along.
they were tall,
but she was short,
they were funny,
she was kind,
they were there,
she was here,
yet all their faces looked the same.
how certain am I
that i play the protagonist
when i see the waves swirl,
beside – never around me.
and i feel the current lift and drift
slowly catching fire
as she catches me
yet when i land
her hands feel cold,
and her voice a foreign accent;
i strain to comprehend
how unfamiliar words can come
from a mouth i’ve navigated before.
a person explored,
leaves more unknown than one would like.
perhaps you saw too much of me,
but knew too little,
my manic pixie girl.
butwhoeverdrinks 