She Is Not a Person
She is not a person; her blue stare filled with uncertainty, hiding immeasurable possibility behind its meek fearfulness. She is not a person; she’s a figment of my imagination, I keep telling myself. She’s an extension of a brief moment in a tumultuous time that grants me hope, desire, lust, fear, and every other emotion in the rainbow that is human experience. She is not a person; she’s an incarnation of all my hopes wrapped around all my experiences capping the whole of my memory. She is a fantasy, an immaterial personification, an incorporeal ideal that haunts and taunts me. She is not a person; she’s a quest away, a journey’s distance, from this place and time. She sits across a mountain range, lost amongst the tumult of everyday life, and yet she’s in my head and shaping my every thought. She is not a person; she’s an illusion, an apparition, a figment of my imagination, a delusion, a hallucination, an invention, a mirage, a vision, a pipe dream, a reverie. She is not a person.
And yet, though I know that she does not exist the way I see her, I want only for her to be able to look into my eyes, and understand the way her beauty, her youth, her idealism, her insecurity, her fear, and her hope all add up; the way she is all I could ever dream of, and all I could never experience.