Dancing on Needles

I know I can't dance.
Not together with someone anyway.
I'd step on your toes,
or you'd step on mine.

Though I'd love to try-
It'd be ok to fall-if it was you.
But I'm too scared to ask.
Besides, girls never do the asking.

If we do dance, though, I'd rather it be on cotton clouds instead of needles.

I'm so sick of dancing solo,
it's a nice change when we're waltzing.
Even when you step on my feet.
And I trip on my dress.

We dance to the music of a glockenspiel, like ballet dancers in a music box.

But I open my eyes.
I'm standing alone in the harsh white of the spotlight.
I realise that I've been besotted by a figment of my imagination.
The music plays on but my feet hurt.

Bittersweet Cough Syrup Dreams

I dreamt of living in an igloo with you.
An igloo which had a chimney that blew the clouds into the cold, blue sky.

I dreamt of you singing songs for me.
A song about us living in an igloo, with a big cherry tree outside, under which we'd huddle together and read.

I dreamt of us holding hands.
Hands which served Him. Hands clasped together in prayer. Hands which gave warmth and chased away the lonely cold.

Dare I dream?

Would these dreams turn out to be bitter? Or sweet?

All Those Pretty People

I was sitting in Starbucks today, looking at those pretty people:
The woman with the Denise-Kellerish hair, wearing the black tank top, three quarter jeans which fit her so well they MUST be branded, and one of those fashionable big belts.
The guy with the really nice profile with too much gel in his hair.
The girl in the off-shoulder polka-dotted blouse caressing the cheek of the boy in front of her.
The ang-moh guy, slightly balding, reading some book on architecture by the window, the light falling on his face in just the right way.
The pretty waitress taking orders at the cashier-raven hair, perfect bangs, perfect smile.

Isn't it weird that nobody at Starbucks has bad hair?

The music.

And that smell. That intoxicating smell of coffee beans, hot water, whipped cream, syrup... and dreams.

How different are their lives from mine?

Their dreams?

Sitting there, I dared to dream about a boy who wore chuck buckleys, and a girl who lost her mary janes.

We left before closing time.

Before the lights were turned off.

Before tired waitresses and waiters took off their aprons and allowed their fatigue to show.

Before pretty people went back to ugly lives.

Quote of the day:

"Hop on if your destination is oblivion- it should be the next stop."
Yann Martel, Life of Pi