Perfection -Part 4-
His voice soft and cracking,
Wanting desperately to start conversation. . .
Discomfort only letting out a few words from my trembling mouth. . .
The center of the audience,
Still alone in the embarrassment of my own silent, screaming ponders. . .
His laughing. . .
Laughing again to help me notice that he’s laughing for me—
That he wants me to join in too. . .
He reminds me I am overthinking again. . .
Sadly, in this sickened mind,
I oblige . . . a curl of a smile from my lips…
Noise coming out. . . JUST NOISE. . .
My mind elsewhere,
Not even laughing at the film in front of us,
Feeling pleasure in the superior feeling that he cannot hear me screaming something else,
Laughing at his evident confidence,
While others beside,
Are in other worlds. . .
All around,
Feeling the superiority of their own thoughts, no doubt. . .
Curiosity like a cheap flashlight,
Flickering on and off,
And then losing battery…
GET A GRIP YOU FOOL!
They are just enjoying a goddamn movie. . .
But we don’t care for a moment. . .
They want us to know that the fiction is far more exciting than our insignificant reality,
Temporary partnership. . .
And I want to give him attention,
Because I want him not to feel what I feel every sad day of my life. . .
I want him because people unwant him. . .
And he knows that they are not looking. . .
But I am. . .
And I always have been looking,
Targeting you from the crowd since day one,
Steering my attention away from the braced teeth,
The doubled chins,
The collateral cussing,
That guy's flexing ass,
The buttered crab in false paradise…
His elbow stabbing into my world.....
And I feel awful knowing the thoughts will never reach his own,
Just for a second. . .
And then I thank God that he is not a mind reader,
Otherwise he’d be reading his life away,
In the sticky pages of my thoughtless, void existence. . .
I realize it is just him and me in the room now. . .
As you pour your glass of rum,
We ignore your existence,
Looking in each other’s eyes in that fraction of a millisecond. . .
Nobody knows us.
Our minds are bedridden in disease and frictional bewilderment. . .
No one can ever truly see it. . .
No one, not even I,
Understands these thoughts. . .
And it is sickening to realize . .
But. . .
That is the perfection I have come to know.
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2012
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