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Window Shades
[Fantasy]
He sees her in black silk and lace, of skin made from hand-blown glass and simple touches. Sometimes she’s deadly; she does things to him he never dreamed about. Other times, she smiles and kisses him passionately. She never lets him lead. He never has to worry about what to do or say; she’s always in control, whether by use of props (his mind never gets this far), or by a look and a shove. She flirts, says things in his ear to make him quiver, and slowly drives him crazy.
He wishes it were more then a fantasy.
[Eyes]
She’s caustic and annoying, a thorn in his side that hovers over his shoulders and lurks in corners, just trying to frighten him. She wears all black and stalks the hallways like a shadow, appearing when he least wants her too. She bitches at everything he does and threatens whoever crosses her path. She doesn’t care about anyone or anything, she wants everything from everyone and gives nothing in return. Everyone hates her. He hates her. He wants her to go away.
He sees nothing beyond the mask.
[Head]
It’s all a lie. He’s told them –the ones who criticize- but they don’t believe him. Sometimes he doesn’t believe himself. He knows the mask is there, but has a hard time looking past it. He knows the black is to hide in. He wants to know her, for who she really is, but his instincts of preservation are stronger then that simple desire. Nothing in her life is simple. She makes his life complicated. He’d give anything for her, but he doesn’t know why. He’d die for her, might even kill for her. But she’ll never ask. She’ll never ask him for anything.
And he doesn’t know why.
[Heart]
He sketches her eyes on a piece of lined paper again and again but can never seem to get them right. They’re the right shape, the right texture, even the right shade, though done in a dull tipped pencil, but every time he draws them, there’s something missing. He draws back and depicts her as she’s seen- dressed in black and out for blood. But the eyes still aren’t right. He taps the pencil tip against the paper; it can’t materialize her soul. He loves her. Not a love at first sight; he hated her the first time they met. It was more the gradual understanding of the way she thinks, the way she acts that drew him to her. She’s his protector. He respects her like one, but no longer worships the Fantasy he created in the beginning. He knows her weaknesses and, unlike the others, refuses to play upon them. He loves her.
In his heart, anyway.
+ + +
end
Window Shades
[Fantasy]
He sees her in black silk and lace, of skin made from hand-blown glass and simple touches. Sometimes she’s deadly; she does things to him he never dreamed about. Other times, she smiles and kisses him passionately. She never lets him lead. He never has to worry about what to do or say; she’s always in control, whether by use of props (his mind never gets this far), or by a look and a shove. She flirts, says things in his ear to make him quiver, and slowly drives him crazy.
He wishes it were more then a fantasy.
[Eyes]
She’s caustic and annoying, a thorn in his side that hovers over his shoulders and lurks in corners, just trying to frighten him. She wears all black and stalks the hallways like a shadow, appearing when he least wants her too. She bitches at everything he does and threatens whoever crosses her path. She doesn’t care about anyone or anything, she wants everything from everyone and gives nothing in return. Everyone hates her. He hates her. He wants her to go away.
He sees nothing beyond the mask.
[Head]
It’s all a lie. He’s told them –the ones who criticize- but they don’t believe him. Sometimes he doesn’t believe himself. He knows the mask is there, but has a hard time looking past it. He knows the black is to hide in. He wants to know her, for who she really is, but his instincts of preservation are stronger then that simple desire. Nothing in her life is simple. She makes his life complicated. He’d give anything for her, but he doesn’t know why. He’d die for her, might even kill for her. But she’ll never ask. She’ll never ask him for anything.
And he doesn’t know why.
[Heart]
He sketches her eyes on a piece of lined paper again and again but can never seem to get them right. They’re the right shape, the right texture, even the right shade, though done in a dull tipped pencil, but every time he draws them, there’s something missing. He draws back and depicts her as she’s seen- dressed in black and out for blood. But the eyes still aren’t right. He taps the pencil tip against the paper; it can’t materialize her soul. He loves her. Not a love at first sight; he hated her the first time they met. It was more the gradual understanding of the way she thinks, the way she acts that drew him to her. She’s his protector. He respects her like one, but no longer worships the Fantasy he created in the beginning. He knows her weaknesses and, unlike the others, refuses to play upon them. He loves her.
In his heart, anyway.
+ + +
end
