I’ve ridden every horse I’ve seen. I can see in the dark. I can read every work of Proust in under an hour and can do so while pleasuring a woman. I leave nothing to be desired in the bedroom. I eat a raw steak once a month at Mastro’s and I never wait for a table. My therapist asks me for advice. I’ve fought in fourteen wars, shaken the hand of 42 presidents, I’ve dined with everyone from Godard to Tony Hawke. I’ve given gonorrhea to whole continents. I’ve seen rivers run red with the blood of my enemies. The Pope once compared me to Christ and I punched him in the face. I’m not like Christ, I’ll never die.

Michelangelo sculpted in my image. I am the Renaissance, a deity. My hair gets thicker with age. I don’t mourn the dead, I pity the living. I’ve cried only once in my life while watching a particularly beautiful sunset. I have one dream every night in which I am the last man on earth thus the richest and the most poor, the strongest and the most weak, both good and evil. I wake up at 7am. I make myself climax with my mind. I’m at work by 8. My company grossed more than Apple within its first year. I make all my assistants learn latin.

At the club I order an Old Fashioned, neat, and think about the human stain that is man. I wait for emotion to be bred out of humanity like body hair on women. When a woman says, “I love you” I say, “I am Lazarus, come from the dead.” When they ask what I find beautiful and I say paintings of falcons.

There is a harp player in the vestibule of my office. HR hired her after too many of my agents had heart attacks. They say that music is calming. Music is the sonic personification of emotion and that disgusts me. You know what I find calming? Order, fear, dominance, Russian Literature. The harp player is a distraction. I throw coins at her when I pass through the lobby.

Her incessant machine is turning the work place into a chapel. The noise like a battering ram beating its way into my office. I imagine bludgeoning the harp player with my awards from MIT. She holds the instrumenting gently but with pride. You know what should be held like that? Assault rifles, Rottweilers, Swiss prostitutes. Not harps. I hate her and I tell her so. Not with words. With my eyes.

The harp player is with me even when she’s not. In the silence of my penthouse I hear the insidious instrument. It’s invaded my head, the inside of my skull a cacophonous amphitheater, a tiny harpist inside. It’s spreading through me, a thawing feeling, like hints of spring. I have the strangest urge to donate to charities and call my mother. I pass a shelter and bring home a kitten. The music only gets louder. The strings laugh at me, wretched hyenas. “You don’t control me. I’m an island!” I punch the granite counter top. I free the kitten into the street.

I tell the harp player she must find a new office to torment. Her ceaseless playing is unraveling me. I haven’t eaten or slept. She quiets her strings and they obey her, the witch. “Would you like to try?” she asks. I don’t talk to women this long without the promise of sex so I leave. It starts up again.

I give the harp player a poisoned beverage and she’s out for 3 days. When she returns she is weak and her music reflects it. The notes are somber, sickly. I feel accomplished and buy a new suit.

I sit court-side at the Lakers game. The heaving athletes make me think of primordial man. Man is made for sport. He is given a grueling task, which he’ll either succeed or fail in. It is not obscured by ostentation or subterfuge. I think of the Coliseum. I think of trench warfare and sip my Old Fashioned. But the panting of men in front of me and roaring crowd go quiet. The game continues but in silence, like a television on mute. And then it begins. Harp music, soft at first but with growing tenacity. Each note lingers in the air, vibrates, it’s laughing again, the strings are being tickled. The celestial music is billowing out of the speakers. It drifts out of the mouths of screaming fans and through the coach’s whistle and from the rubber souled shoes that bounce off the court. The players aren’t playing anymore either, they’re dancing. Not even dancing like you do at the club, they’re dancing on point, ballerinas in jerseys. They’re doing Swan Lake. It’s disgusting. I open my mouth to scream, “prevail, men, we dance for no one!” but only more music comes out. There’s a string quartet in my lungs. The louder I scream, the more angelic it sounds. It’s clouding my vision. I’m no longer sure what thoughts are my own. I try to conjure images of nude women, whaling ships, animal pelts. But all I see when I close my eyes are waterfalls.

The shadow’s growing on your face

My blood can’t be replaced

I’m getting tired of the chase

Love is not a race

Your heart’s in a different place

We’re still here at this pace

Warning, Impact, time to brace..

In a crowd of thousands, I sit in the middle of the audience. My dress is fitted, and my makeup is divine, there is not a hair out of place.

I could say that I dressed for the occasion, but who would believe me?

It’s sure to be a marvelous night, filled with music, and filled with love.

There are so many musicians onstage tonight, but I’m only here for you Maestro.

The curtain rises, and the audience cheers as you walk out to center stage, a baton in your hand. The musicians have waited for you, they all lift their instruments and begin to play.

Following your tempo, obeying every beat.

And I have been captivated from the first note played.

You are the conductor, and this is your symphony, your masterpiece.

Every note perfection, every sound your own.

You are in control.

In a crowd of thousands, I admire you from afar. I patiently wait for your song to end, for you to turn around and our eyes to meet,

wondering if they even will meet.

I’m pathetic.

I know that I am, for thinking that you might feel the same, to even think, in a crowd of thousands, you would possibly be looking for my eyes. When I already know there is another girl,one who you love, one who is sweet enough to inspire your melody.

She is more than your muse, she is your reason, and I see your passion for her with every stroke of your hands.

It’s what has made your music different from all the rest.

There’s a pause in your composition, your hands hold the orchestra still. They await your approval to play on.

Oh God, Why am I here?

I don’t even know anymore. To win your heart? To take you away to a place where I can call you mine? In a perfect world, you would change the melody unexpectedly, not caring for the audience’s approval. When it was all over you’d drop your baton, and you’d run out into the crowd of thousands, searching for me.

“It was all for you my love,” you would say, and then we’d run out of the theatre, never looking back.

Suddenly the music begins again, and reality has set back in.

You take the next stroke of your baton, directing the orchestra to continue with your song. They follow your intense movements, performing your melody exactly how you intended it be.

Is it a crime, to feel how I do?

It can’t be. We don’t do anything wrong. You don’t try to impress me, never flirting with those eyes I love so much. You don’t do anything except be yourself: A soul filled with ambition to succeed, a smile that warms even the coldest of rooms and eyes that showcase the truth of your genuine heart.

And who am I?

Just a simple nobody who has fallen for your kindness in a world that has shown me little to none.

A nobody who has fought endlessly to stop my heart from skipping a beat and my soul from flying over the moon at just the mere site of you.

A nobody who wants this feeling to end

But even when the desire is unrequited, the heart still wants things the mind does not understand.

So I fail, and I am helpless knowing there is no controlling my foolish heart.

You already have your muse, your orchestra, your melody, and if I ever tried to take that away then I wouldn’t just be a nobody, I would have become the person I hate the most: A woman who hurts another sister out of jealously, out of spite. I’d be a criminal, a thief of love, a murderess of hearts, creating loss and grief.

I cannot intervene your song just so mine can begin.

She doesn’t deserve that, and my love, neither do you.

Though I crave your beautiful symphony, it is not for me. So, I tell myself, if she’s the reason behind your melody that you’ve created, the song I want to sing along to, then I need to let you go

My heartbreak will be worth it,

To see that smile I adore, to still hear the song I sing along to.

The music stops,

You turn around to find the audience is already on their feet.

They are bursting with praise as you lift both arms into the air and take a bow. The crowd roars, begging you for more while you rise. This is the moment you’ve waited and worked for.

Yet, you seem unsettled, like something is missing.

I watch as your eyes frantically search for hers.

Or are you?

Because somehow in the crowd of thousands, you find mine first.

The audience is cheering, but your eyes are locked on mine, and your smile grows.

Your genuine eyes tell the truth: It’s me, I’m the reason for your happiness. The crowd wants more, but you won’t stop looking at me.

Are you afraid of your own destiny? Are you wondering if it’s with me?

I won’t let you do this. At least not right now.

“Play on Maestro,” I tell you with a wasted heart.

There’s a thunderous applause surrounding the two of us, despite it all, I know you can understand my words.

Your smile breaks, as does mine, I watch as you slowly turn around to begin your encore.

I know what I’ve done, I’ve made my choice, but you have a symphony to conduct, and a muse to keep your song going.

The music is filled with passion, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And who am I to intervene?

I am the girl in the crowd of thousands, a girl who loves music.

Even if the song isn’t for me.

#FreeVerse #Poetry #Romance #Unrequited

'I don't know you.'

'I don't know you.'

'I don't know you.'

His voice echoed in my head.

'How could this have happened...'

It suddenly dawned on me.

'We never met. In this reality, we never met.'

The thought was like an anchor, pulling down my heavy heart to the depths of nothingness.

"Andy! We played together as kids! At the Boire Orphanage! We grew up together! You were a jokester and always told me cheesy jokes that no one laughed at, but we'd laugh together for hours and hours!" Tears started forming in my eyes, and my eyelids were too weak to hold them back by that point, so I just let them spill. My whole body was too weak to do anything, so I just rambled on with words and stories that meant nothing to him at all. And I cried. I cried until my face was soaked.

"Listen-Marcy, I-"

"It's Marie," I corrected him. 'God, this is the worst.' I had to take a second to look away from him.

"Marie," he paused and gave me a look as if to get approval for his next words.

"I'm sorry, but I really think you have the wrong person, there's no way I'm engaged to you. I'm getting married to the love of my life just next week! Plus, I was never in an orphanage. Now maybe if you go to the police, I-I'm sure they'd be able to track this guy down for you-"

My voice was still trembling as I sorrowfully pulled out the necklace he had given me- well, the Andy I knew before time travelling.

"You gave me this," I displayed the necklace that had our 1 month old engagement ring hooked on, "exactly 1 month ago. That's when you proposed to me. Inside of Reaton Park, in the rose maze. You even had our intitials printed on it, see?" I showed him the backside of the ring.

'He's not going to remember you idiot. He never met you!' said a voice inside my head.

'I don't care. I want to show him anyways. Will it change anything? Probably not. But at least I showed him...At least I tried.'

"We were best friends. Every Saturday, we'd go to Ellie's Icecream Shop, and I'd get strawberry and you'd always get pumpkin. Everyday we played soccer in the streets, you weren't very athletic so you'd always managed to fall right before making a shot... You called it your lucky move. We even got matching tattoos when we turned eighteen!" I pulled out my wrist that had the words: "to the fullest" on an infinity sign.

"We made a pact to stay together until the end of our lives when we got those tattoos... it was the week after you'd been diagnosed and a week after my grandfather had passed away." I tucked the tattoo back inside my jacket sleeve.

I felt like I was pleading for nothing. It was just emptiness. He wasn't going to magically understand and be aware of everything. How could I possibly make him believe me? I felt pathetic. This was pathetic.

He was just standing there. Politely listening to all of this, looking confused. Probably trying to decide whether he should call the psychiatric hospital nearby.

"Andy, I know you don't know any of this because- because..."

I stumbled. Should I tell him? Should I tell him about everything? How I time travelled to save his parents from that horrible fire. And how I didn't think about how it would change his life...particularly with me. He needed family. He was going insane, begging for a relative to be with him. I did it for him. It was all for him. Because of that, he now has a mother and a father, and even a younger brother! He's a doctor now, no longer a musician and an artist. No longer ill, and longer aqcuainted with any Marie's.

"Because... you are living well. You have a good life now." I took in a deep breath to calm myself as I decided to leave. "Live it to the fullest my friend." Where my final words came from that day, I will never know. But as sad as they were to me, to this day, I am happy I said them.

I stood for moment and stared at him. Trying to get a picture of him in my mind, so that maybe in the future, I'll be able to forget my Andy. So to forget Andy as a whole. It was better this way anyway. He is happy now. I let out a sigh and turned to leave.

As I was about to exit the park, I heared his familiar yet so distant voice, "Thank you," he paused hesitantly, "Thank you, Marie."

I stood frozen for a few seconds, embracing the lone ring around my neck. Wiped my final tear, and continued on my way out of the park, and out of his life.

#scifi #timetravel #romance #friendship

People buzz around me. The school cafeteria, the home of cliques, cults, and prep squads. Unfortunately for my peers, I don't fit into anyone of the groups they have formed. The nerds sit on the opposite side of the cafeteria than the geeks, and the jocks sit with the cheerleaders in the middle. If you accidentaly call a geek a nerd or vice versa,there will be hell to pay. Oh, and don't you dare sit with the jocks and cheerleaders, unless your invited to their table. The consequence of that is social death. I am too obliviant for the nerds, too clumsy for the jocks/cheerleaders, and too bookish for the geeks. So I sit in the far corner, an outcast, alone. I don't really mind though. Solitude is my fortress - silence my strength. I sit with my nose in a book, disinterested with the food on my plate. Books make it easier to avoid the staring. My peers watch me, waiting for me to reveal some piece of information about myself. Every student looking for secrets I don't have. Each group waiting for me to be claimed by one clique or another. They will be disappointed. I am a loner. I feel like a character in a book. When the lines of reality blur, it seems as though I'm a prom queen in the making. The outcast waiting for her make-over, Cinderella before the ball. The drama around me seems distant and unreal. Characters from my books have become more relatable than the person sitting a table away. Why do the fairytales seem more realistic than reality?

Once upon a time, my life was a fairytale.

I didn’t see anything wrong with it.

Then I opened my eyes.

And saw all the previously hidden shit.

Once upon a time, a was a happy, young child.

I was innocent, and gullible as well.

Then I grew two feet, two years.

I realized I was living in hell.

Once upon a time, I lived where Barbies where the “thing.”

I loved them and Bratz dollz and even more.

Now I live where people call others,

People on the internet they don’t even know, whores.

Once upon a time, I lived in a happy place.

Everyone was friends, we all got along.

Now I notice, that it was an act.

That I was totally wrong.

Once upon a time, In a land far far away,

I was happy, I was free. I was a great friend.

Not any more I say,

Whatever is good or bad, eventually comes to an end.

But that was all, once upon a time.

What about now?

Do I need to rhyme,

Or do I need to shout?

Yes, that was all, once upon a time.

Where I was pure, and loved.

Now it’s all mimed.

I’m dirty, and shoved.

Of course, that was all, once upon a time.

It couldn’t be now. NO, it had to be hell.

We will be judged, all in due time,

Right now I just want to yell.

Because.

Once upon a time, I got myself dressed.

In my girly pretty clothes, that I showed off.

My hair shiny, my skin soft.

Now, that I’m older, I’m so depressed.

And in that time, where I got dressed,

I was giggling, and blessed/ But now that I’m older.

I am stressed.

And even though I’m stressed, I’ve gotten bolder.

Oh, once upon a time, you were like that too.

Had an identical life, everyone loved you.

Let me tell you something my friend.

All what’s good, must come to an end.

We don’t like in happy times.

We didn’t live in the Good Old times.

We were just oblivious to all the hate and crimes,

And forgot that even though we say once upon a time,

We don’t live in fairytale time.

there's pain

under my mask

that smolders me

in the tightest embrace

just when I think

I'm fine

when I think

I'll get by

there's a fire

inside of my heart

filled with flames

ready to burn my skin

and leave me to ash

twisting themselves

tenderly and

lovingly

around me

ready to please

ready for release

there's sorrow

in my soul

that brakes me ruffly

shattering

me in pieces

and leaving me scarred

I feel bruised

I feel bettered

I feel lost

what is this

heavy-weight?

that crashes my heart

why is it so hard

to breathe?

so hard to go on

so hard to be Now

and forget what once was

and will be no more

there's pain under my mask

that leaves it crooked

and stops the lies

from looking straight and honest

even if wrapped

in the kindest of smiles

and the best of intentions

I am a lie

...How are you today ?

...Oh, me ? I'm just fine.

And to think

I knew only a small part of him

Before I lost him:

I wish I could have memorized his smile

Because now when I dream of him I can only see one thing at a time:

His eyes, his hair, his hands

And it's hard to know someone when all I have left of him is a few pictures and a fragmented memory.

But you. You are different.

I am beginning to know all of you

Even the parts I don't like:

The ways in which you're an unsteady ship

Sometimes drifting towards me, sometimes far away.

I have memorized your formula for small talk,

Your changing eyes,

Your unforgettable smile

but when I look at you I can only see one part of you at a time:

your eyes, your hair, your hands

When I think of you I see you in your entirity,

and I see flowers growing

and I see hope left for us.

With you so closeby I can hardly breathe,

With you so far away I can hardly think.

As you become more real

he fades away,

until all I have left is his still, unmoving picture

his unchanging eyes

and forgettable smile.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"I-I like you."

"You what?"

"I like you. Like a lot."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Yes."

"I like you too."

"You do?"

"I do."

"Would you like to um like uh maybe-"

"I would love too."

"Great."

"It is. It really is."

...

...

"Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Good."

"It is good."

...

...

"I take you for better or for worst, for richer or for poorer."

"I do."

"I do."

He had a kind soul wrapped around his demonic heart. Murder and madness tried to poke through, but it was suffucated by light of his soul. Every now and then a piece would get through: anger, jealousy, greed; but it was always well contained. He hid it from the world, and hid it well. No man nor woman could have ever known how truly dangerous his heart was. The shadows of his life whispered in his ear, but he cast them aside. His demons sat in the background, as he held the door open for a lady. They cackled as he said please and thank you. His soul longed to do good, but his heart ached for chaos and descruction. These were the troubles of his life, unknown to those around him. A kind soul wrapped around his demonic heart, who knows what would happen if his soul was undone.