𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝┊✓

cento e trinta e tres

«loving the vintage arts»

«epigraph»
few thousand miles
and an ocean away
b u t i s e e t h e s u n r i s e
—oceans away (Arizona)

she's standing in the middle of where it all began.
gazing around, reminiscing,
those golden memories of that vintage studio.
the infinitesimal moments before kisses,
the mesmerising eyes, hypnotic gazes,
and wicked smiles,
the empty mugs to be refilled with sweet tea,
the electric fingertips,
the young hearts like lightning,
but old souls.
the nights spent on the rooftop,
stargazing the hush of the night sky,
each star a freckle, each planet an island,
lonelier from afar.
but all that is gold cannot stay.

she loved it all.
the arts, old english, vinyls, coffeeshoppes, aesthetics.
she loved it blindly,
the feeling darkening over everything.
passionately writing poetry and prose,
writing stories,
capturing pretty shots of the sunrise and sunset
and passionately drawing and painting on white canvas.
she was painting smiles on everyone's face but her own,
being capricious, like a figment out of a book.
she was always seen and unseen.
she was bioluminescent.
she was the epitome of temptation,
making him want to succumb.
she found parts in him he didn't know existed.
then again,
they were bad for each other,
but they weren't good for anyone else.

walking around, quoting shakespeare and whitman,
letting the curves of her lips rewrite poetry
as she collected picasso and da vinci,
if you wanted to find her,
you'd have to check the coffeeshoppes first.
making galaxies in her coffee
(otherwise known as writing poetry at 2am)
she didn't know
there were constellations and galaxies within her.
stardust danced in her soul, stars danced in her eyes
and her loved shined.
she was a free spirit
and even though she hadn't dealt with anything more difficult than her own soul,
she kept going.
but the circumstances had changed.
the innocence he used to love is gone.
perhaps,
it was her false expectations
that had created her own heartbreak.
she could hear her own heart breaking,
yet she was still willing to love
the same one who broke it.
she couldn't let go of the one person
who made her feel like home.
she couldn't seem to close the door to her heart
when it's door had been blown to pieces.
everything she wrote on paper,
was an unwritten version of what went on inside her.
she lived not knowing what the media was.
instead, she went to hundreds of
book festivals, music festivals, art festivals, exhibits, museums, and galas.
she had ocean eyes,
so easy to get lost in, yet so captivating.
she found beauty in the dullest of things.
freshly brewed coffee, art gallery cafés,
thank-you notes always sent on time,
indie films, a gorgeous piano symphony,
english accents, lips pink as roses.

but as nights pass, she sat in the moonlight,
reading stevenson and hugo.
her coffee got cold as
she waited for him to miss her.
she writes 'i still love you' on all of her cigarettes
hoping with each she burns,
he would mean a little less.
his words ringing clearly in her head,
'i will be a boat and row your beauty to the moon.'
but at the time,
she hadn't known any better.
she believed him with all she had.
only to know now,
they were all broken promises and pretty lies.
on the other side of the golden thread,
his cigarettes chased one after the other,
trying to forget her.
she gave up with belittling herself to please him,
never giving him the time of her day again.
and she sat,
on the floor of her vintage studio,
watching the gold skies.

n° 133