Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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Heather’s silhouette is reflected in your eyes. You’ve been staring at her for so long that you forgot I was even there. She has everything I don’t. I’m not even half as pretty. My hazel eyes are nothing compared to her sky-blue ones. These brown locks of mine looks dead in contrast to her flaxen hair.
As if loving you is not punishment enough, I still have to endure every second of watching you with Heather. How nice it must feel to receive those flowers you give her every day. How liberating it must feel to hold your hand in public while everyone else is looking. How beautiful it must have been to fall asleep in your arms. How lovely it must be to be in her place.
Heather could be one of the thousand stars scattered in the night sky, and I could be the giant moon looming just in front of you—and still, you would reach for her. Heather could be the deepest, coldest ocean in Antarctica, and I could be the warm, ceaseless river rushing to meet you—and still, you would choose to drown yourself in her waves. Heather could be the harsh droplets of storm falling from the sky, and I could be the one offering you my coat as a shield—and still, you would run out in the open to get rained on.
Some random English teacher from some random movie said, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” I guess that’s why I accepted yours, even when all you give me are crumbs. If I were a poem, I must have been Frost’s—the risk not taken, the road not chosen. If I were in a play, I might have been in Shakespeare’s—the Rosaline to your Romeo. If I were a song, I must have been Gray’s—wishing I was Heather.
