Various musings from a notebook.

You have old eyes.
The kind that say you've seen too much.
Our scars are so much the same.
You're familiar.
That old, angry song
You know it too
You've heard it too
The screaming, razor-sharp words
That old, tired dance
Of broken glass
And torn photographs
You've seen it too.
In that way, we're the same.
The same fears.
The same questions.
Wondering if love really exists.
If it does, can it really work?
Can it last?
-November 2010

He met her under the streetlight.
Tan corduroy jacket zipped up, speckled with icy flakes.
Hands jammed into the front pockets of his dark wash jeans.
Old beat-up Pumas covered in slush.
Snow in his hair, hair in his face.
She ran to him, half-slipping in the ice.
His arms caught her, pulled her to him.
-Snow Day; December 26, 2010

This is from a dream I had a few months ago that I had fallen in love with a boy who was HIV-positive:
He had the sun in his hair
And sadness in his eyes
As he spoke of disease and anger and
careless mothers using filthy needles.
I wanted to kiss the quivering out of his hands, kiss the pain off his face,
kiss away his sickness.
But I couldn't.
All I could do was sit there across from him
And listen as he told me about the betrayal of his own blood, his body.
About the kaleidoscope of pills he has to take every single day.
About how he could never give me the life I wanted.
The children I wanted.
But I didn't care.
All I wanted was him.
And every second, every minute, every day, month, year I get to spend with him
No matter how hard or sad
Would be so worth it.
-I woke up crying from this dream. It seriously felt so real.