Reality

A Poem by Melle

In reality, she's straight.

I suppose I could explain this in forms of poetry. A haiku perhaps?

There's a girl I know,

She is what dreams are made of,

But she's hetero.

Catchy, yes? There's even a slight rhyme.

But no, seventeen syllables aren't enough to scratch the surface of who she is. If I were going to write poetry, a limerick would probably be the appropriate length. Although there's nothing humorous about the way she makes me feel.

I suppose if I truly wanted to, I could write a sonnet describing the depths of her eyes.

Of course, why stop there when I could write a novel depicting everything about her. From the top of he hair to the bottom of her feet. I could describe everything freckle on her face, if I please.

Although I fear that would be too long. The amount of words it would take to talk about her would put Charles Dickens to shame. Tomes would be one page essays, War and Peace a simple chapter book. Either way, who guarantees I could finish such a feat?

I find it difficult to write about how the sun kisses her skin, when I think of how he kisses her as well.

I wonder who else has looked into her eyes and have gotten trapped in a moment of escapade. Some would call them an ocean, but what first felt like an undertow soon turned into a hurricane.

I'm still struggling to find the eye of the storm.

I could pretend I have a chance, but what would be the point? Why write poems and novels pretending she could be mine, when I know that this isn't a cliché novel, or a hit movie.

This, dear reader, is reality.

And despite everything beautiful about her,

reality is ugly.