Cliches
Colour
"I hate cliches," she says, hand curled around the cup of her tea "and you're a cliche,"
You dont say anything, stay quiet, and stare into your own cup - coffee, black. You think she's beautiful, and you told her that, but she won't swoon to an idiot like you. She doesn't believe in things like poetry, she doesn't believe that boys like you could ever be fit for a girl like her.
She's vibrant, alive, happy. She has a big family, a younger sister, an older brother - she's not loud, but she's not silent, either. She's not witty, she's smart. She knows a joke or two at nobody's expense, nothing bitter in the ring of her laughter, no added on sentences about wanting to die.
Your fingers flex and you reach for a cigarette, but she hits it to the ground. "Do you want to die young?" and then she looks into your faces, and she sighs "you do, right? You write poetry about it too, I bet." and she doesn't laugh then because it's not a funny subject and you're so used to tired chuckles, quiet amusement, that it takes you off guard. She doesn't want to die, she wants to live, and you think you have forgotten what that feels like.
The gold of her nails makes you want to remember. Instead of replying, you push the cigarette into the ground with your foot, digging it deep into the grass.
She sighs again and picks it up from the ground, letting it drop into the bin next to her. Her dark skin contrasts readily on the clean white of the cigarette, and it captivates you for a moment too long. You want to see her smoke, but she doesn't care for that sort of crutch.
"You'll kill an innocent fox doing that," it makes you picture every cigarette butt you ever dropped to the ground, every pack you threw to the side and you dream up a percentage of a statistic - how many innocent animals you killed while trying to kill yourself. You don't think she'd care.
"Do you hate me?"
"You're not turning me into sad poetry,"
It makes you smile,
"I won't turn you into sad poetry." you promise, and there's a light feeling in your chest that means more than any depth.
"Good. I'm not fueling any of your sick thoughts," and - is that amusement? There's an upturn to her lips, definitely, and you want to burn your black coats and buy a rack of colour. She'd hate it if you changed for her, to get her, to have a chance. She doesn't believe in that sort of thing. She'd call you ridiculous, and somehow you're okay with that.
It doesn't matter what she thinks, in the end, because she doesn't swoon for boys like you. Doesn't swoon for anyone. You think that's beautiful, and beauty can't be owned, and you won't write a poem about it because there's too many pale skinned dark haired poets in the world, enough chain smokers and false philosophers pondering the meaning of life.
It's doesn't matter what she thinks, or why you're here, but sadness isn't everything.
It never was.
You dont say anything, stay quiet, and stare into your own cup - coffee, black. You think she's beautiful, and you told her that, but she won't swoon to an idiot like you. She doesn't believe in things like poetry, she doesn't believe that boys like you could ever be fit for a girl like her.
She's vibrant, alive, happy. She has a big family, a younger sister, an older brother - she's not loud, but she's not silent, either. She's not witty, she's smart. She knows a joke or two at nobody's expense, nothing bitter in the ring of her laughter, no added on sentences about wanting to die.
Your fingers flex and you reach for a cigarette, but she hits it to the ground. "Do you want to die young?" and then she looks into your faces, and she sighs "you do, right? You write poetry about it too, I bet." and she doesn't laugh then because it's not a funny subject and you're so used to tired chuckles, quiet amusement, that it takes you off guard. She doesn't want to die, she wants to live, and you think you have forgotten what that feels like.
The gold of her nails makes you want to remember. Instead of replying, you push the cigarette into the ground with your foot, digging it deep into the grass.
She sighs again and picks it up from the ground, letting it drop into the bin next to her. Her dark skin contrasts readily on the clean white of the cigarette, and it captivates you for a moment too long. You want to see her smoke, but she doesn't care for that sort of crutch.
"You'll kill an innocent fox doing that," it makes you picture every cigarette butt you ever dropped to the ground, every pack you threw to the side and you dream up a percentage of a statistic - how many innocent animals you killed while trying to kill yourself. You don't think she'd care.
"Do you hate me?"
"You're not turning me into sad poetry,"
It makes you smile,
"I won't turn you into sad poetry." you promise, and there's a light feeling in your chest that means more than any depth.
"Good. I'm not fueling any of your sick thoughts," and - is that amusement? There's an upturn to her lips, definitely, and you want to burn your black coats and buy a rack of colour. She'd hate it if you changed for her, to get her, to have a chance. She doesn't believe in that sort of thing. She'd call you ridiculous, and somehow you're okay with that.
It doesn't matter what she thinks, in the end, because she doesn't swoon for boys like you. Doesn't swoon for anyone. You think that's beautiful, and beauty can't be owned, and you won't write a poem about it because there's too many pale skinned dark haired poets in the world, enough chain smokers and false philosophers pondering the meaning of life.
It's doesn't matter what she thinks, or why you're here, but sadness isn't everything.
It never was.