Living in a Dreamworld

The edges of your face were blurred, but it wasn't from tears, my dear. Don't flatter yourself.

Perhaps it was the dusty pane of light streaming through the splotched window that gave your visage that angelic glow. Ironically, you were anything but heavenly to me at that moment.

Deities had nothing on you in my mind until December finally came, constricting me with the constant feeling of closure in the air and frost on my chapped lips. Maybe I had the feathered wings right, but you could only soar so high, falling far short of the stratosphere where cherubs reside.

Their rosy cheeks could not compare to mine that day as I stepped away from the unfocused planes of your face, stumbling as if I couldn't get away fast enough.

The sour taste in my mouth wasn't from your paltry excuse for a x-mas gift but rather from the steel grey feeling of blood where I gnawed the left side of my cheek to shreds as you watched me silently.

I was the girl with her heart in her hand, on her sleeve and around her neck. You were the boy who traced his chest faintly around the area where the heart is, forgetting that it is more than skin deep.

I felt on the verge of dreamland and my mind was hazy as I backed away, wondering if I should surrender to the cliche and pinch my slack arm in a feeble attempt to shake away the clouds that gathered around my head.

The slush gathered at the edges of my shoes had melted, and I had been there for too long.
I slid my heart in my pocket, gently prised it off my sleeve and tucked it back inside my sweater. You brushed your feathers off, ridding yourself of all reminders of me and willed me to find love again.

I pushed open the decrepit door, and like Lot's wife, looked over my shoulder one last time, even though I should not. The taste of salt captivated my lips.

Your face is now unrecognizable, but I swear, I am not crying.