Blonde Dreams

For my best friend.

Blonde Dreams

I looked at her in the same spot where she had stood nine months prior. ‘She’ being my ex-girlfriend and ‘her’ being the best friend any sane person could ever ask for. Two different people. Two different feelings. But only one word to describe the way I felt about Her, not She, Her. Love. It seemed inappropriate to put Her in the same category as my ex-girlfriend when I told my therapist about people that I’ve loved. She didn’t mean nearly as much to me as the girl that was standing on my porch three-quarters of a year after She dumped me.

I looked at Her and was in awe. In awe of so many things that I could fill up every page of the Bible twice over because that beautiful, wild, girl is my religion. I’m gonna stop using ‘She’ to describe my ex, and ‘Her’ to describe my best friend because that would be the most annoying f*****g thing to read; especially considering the fact that I literally just said that I could write over 2,000 pages of ways to describe how she, not ‘She’ she, she meaning ‘Her’, meaning my best friend, makes me the person that I am today. Clear? Good. Now, where was I…

Oh yeah, now I remember. She (again we’re going back to regular grammar, none of this post-modernistic writing style fucky-f**k bullshit) is my religion. She is what gets me up in the morning everyday, because I know that I’ll be able to see that smile, and I know that I won’t need to put on a sweatshirt because she is all the warmth that I’ll ever need. She keeps me from thinking about the horrors of living in a cold, dark world that doesn’t see, nor would ever recognize, true and utter beauty, because she is the light. She is the lamp that keeps me from losing sight of the surface when I delve into the abyss that is my conscience. She is the drumsticks to the beat-up, leather casing that surrounds the muscle that lives inside of my left breast. She is.

I looked at her standing where so many memories had once laid claim, and my heart pumped, and it pumped, and it pumped, and then it skipped a beat, and it skipped a beat, and it pumped and skipped a beat all at the same time. I looked at her brown eyes and imagined what lay behind those mysteriously, gorgeous irises. I viewed many things, but the only thing that I saw was my reflection and the expression that had taken over my face. It was one of heartache. Not the kind of heartache that makes you question how anything could ever be good again. It was the heartache that made you reject that anything bad could ever happen when you were with her. It was heartache and it was beautiful.