She longed to be complicated because
She knew exactly how ordinary she was.
Her stories inhabited the same small world
That was the extent of all she knew.

I can still see her words in my mind,
Written in that oh so American cursive
That was exotic and romantic to me
As Paris was to her. Would she
Have felt the same about my
Barely legible scrawl?

The teenager I was then is long gone,
But his memories linger, all too
Persistently, in the mind of
The almost thirty year old man
I suddenly find myself to be.

That feeling of being swept up in
The moment is just beyond my
Fingertips; visible in the corner of
My eye if I look another way.

The myth of the frustrated poet
Longing to be away, of the
Beautiful princess awaiting rescue from
Some faraway tower was simply
Too good to be true.

It was who she wished to be,
Rather than who she actually was.
She kept the real her hidden behind
Feigned complexity and an imagined
Desire to be somewhere that was
Never real.

I hope that she has found the joy
Of simplicity; of being herself rather than
Fighting all that she is.

03/22/2012

Posted on 04/28/2012
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