A carmine chameleon amongst the oblivious, you'd been hiding for so long in this chaotic nation. Although your unabridged gaze will pave your path, your friends won't recognize you anymore. You're a new creature, born from ash. Everyone’s looking, dearest. You’re this bold beauty. It will thrill me to see how you wear this newfound power.
Of course, I've always admired your independence. You'd sure wear it proud. It isn’t your sly touch or your elegantly staged walk - although I do enjoy watching you sway. You always did know how to own a room, to bring every man (and woman) to their knees. Always ready to go; we'd be in bed, after a long night of traveling, soaking in the morning rays as we lay dormant when suddenly the alarm would go off. Shit. You'd perk up and head to the vanity to start your day. Face wash and makeup, then promptly dressing up in an all-black ensemble, accessorized by your favorite tote filled with seemingly pointless paperwork.
What is it with you early risers? And how do you do it? How do you adult? I have to lay in bed a good three hours before I commit to moving a limb, and even then I need coffee. Of course, you're better put together than I am. Not to say you’re perfect, but life appears to be on your side more often than mine. But then, you plan your days to your advantage and fall asleep at a reasonable hour. You know your way down every street and if I name a random cross street you know exactly where it is. I find myself a bit strange that way. I don’t care to make my bed or set unnecessary appointments and schedule my entire life for the acceptance of others; nor do I ever plan to fall asleep until the clock says A.M. Sure, I have goals, but I’ll make them happen at my own pace. I’ll wander these city streets and trick myself to slow down every now and then. I grew up too fast and at some point I feared nothing would thrill me as I aged. In lieu of that, I'll get lost and pace myself. Idleness is sometimes the best state for thought. I have no right to think so far ahead and to be so aware at my age. My friends call me stoic, but composure is a rare trait in this mess of America.
I like this color contrast we’ve seemed to obtain; red and blue. You’re the fire that ignites, and I’m the sea that washes over you, giving you a sense of calm. We’re both emotional nymphs, but our priorities lie elsewhere. Being the flame is beautiful and intriguing, but true independence is the ability to possess your own fire and sea, a balance of both attributes.
I often wonder what it would look like to put both values on a balance beam — confidence and composure. Which would fall heaviest and which would carry itself light and breezy. I suppose both can only truly come after the weight is gone. Only after one has seen, felt, and experienced a gist of life can one fully develop those traits without a hidden sense of insecurity or ego. You, on the other hand, are this cosmopolitan gem. Your confidence is simply innate, growing up in this city. You’ve kept an open mind with high standards, and you’ve experienced more than most at your age. You're a nerve ending, ablaze. Alone, you are a sense; vibrant and alive, young and fresh.
You and your red lipstick, look at you. Red. Red toenails, red neon sign lighting the linens on your bed, painting those long legs, and your charming obsession with maraschino cherries. Someone once told me red is the color of fire and blood, which implies its association with energy, strength, power, determination, and desire. Red is your mantra. I’ve watched you grow, and now I'll wind you up and watch you go.
Watching you leave should hurt me, but instead I feel a sense of calm. You’ve granted me the luxury of pride. I first plucked you as an insolent young girl, and by the end of our love affair you have blossomed into this sexy, worldly woman. Woman. With hips that know how to move and slide; grind and twist. With a mind of intellect and intuition.
You’re like this thing I’ve created, and now I have the honor to set you off into the world with all that you are, all that you know. I see the way people look at you, in awe. You're an unobtainable being, which only burdens them to want you more. Like fire, a foolish boy will want to touch and hold you, but a man will soon learn it’s hopeless.
You're on your own now, baby. But I see a look in your eyes as you walk away, a hint of wonder splashed with weariness. Ah-ha, there I am — there's my imprint on you; your fire and sea. Loneliness was the fire that's melted into waves.