Cerulean Dream

Grand.

      Her voice was sickeningly sweet and her eyes as sapphire as the fall skies, her skin was a porcelain, reminiscent a fresh snow, but her alabaster hair had breaths of autumn weaved tightly into braids that rested around the bottom of a thick bun of hair atop her head. She smiled ivory beams that reminded me of the joy I had from riding the carousel at the county fair long ago, and I knew it was genuine. I also knew, however, I was only a side note in her time here. She had closer, better friends that I can seldom consider mine anymore. She used to be close to me as well, but when she and them met, I was once again pushed away for someone of better personality and mind. I knew it, it didn't feel okay, but I would be fine.
       I watched a dream unfold in eyes of gorgeous peridot, the sun revealing a familiar scene of the distant hills I called my home, reminding me of the path I walked upon when going to enter my own home. She was special to me, to often had her flaming mane been communicated from me. She kissed me once, but as I didn't wish for her to catch my cold, I pulled away, and left. She wasn't spoken to me since, not really, not truly. My cold cerulean heart throbs in pain for her touch, her attention, but I know that I'm just being selfish, so I ask not.
        As such, here I sit, staring out my window to my grandmother's brilliant garden and eating crunchy and cheese covered chips as my body produces blood as red as the roses I admire through various wounds. One on my elbow, one on my chest, either knee, and if you would consider it a wound, my nethers. The roses would compare to a wish I had made, a wish to cut a rose from the stock and remove the thorns, even should I have to do it with my bare fingers, to present the rose to my dearest one. Love is a rather self destructive thing, I have noticed. I spent hours previous to this moment, this thought, staring at the sun through the trees above a ditch line on the side of the road, a mile or two from my home. That, in fact, is where I had received these gashed, shave for the natural one, and that was where I had wished to remain. We can't always have good things though, now can we? So here I am, sitting in silence as I await my grandmother's return with her first aid kit to treat my cuts. Here I await her to scold me once more and ask me why I would tempt to ride down the mountain slope when I could have gotten hurt much, much worse. Here I will reply with the lie that I was only planning on riding to the herb store half down the mountain, and claim I won't do such a dangerous thing again, but my bike was okay as I am and I would likely do this again.
       I wasn't sure why I had the urge to ride on the treacherous slope down the mountain; I wasn't sure why I layed on the ground so far from safety for so long. Maybe I had craved a release from the blank slate that filled my chest? Maybe, just maybe, I was tempting to fill that slate with the stars and butterflies that ethereal galaxies of long ago once did. But for now, all I wish to do is sit and wait on my grandmother.
         All I wish is to stare into the cerulean skies above the garden grand.