Longing For Fiction

I am so simply understood, from first glance perceptions are made and believed by my invisibly elusive manner. I am plainly read. Plainly understood. But this is not fiction, fiction is mysterious and facts are stumbled upon day to day as words are heard or skin is touched. This is frustrating realism. Perhaps memories are the closest thing I have to fiction, fantasy; frenzied verbs. Perhaps you are who I want to find me Because when a memory of you is dispatched to my eyes I am partly saved. Memories of when I was younger and you were there. Sometimes taller than me and other times shorter. Sometimes your hair was long and strands moved to your lips in sly efforts to slow your fast, silent words. You would and sigh and pass me a cigarette to light and then place it in your parted lips. When you fell asleep I would stare at you. Your head would hang over the sofa and your lips would part like they did when I passed you goods. Your mouth looked like a raindrop. Carved by words out of the soft pale skin, merging into pink. Your mouth looked like a tear. Like my tears when you would leave.