Empty Field Myopia

I am young, but far from naive. I lost my innocence long ago, though I like to think my virtue will always be intact.

I dream about having someone beyond the countless males I wear about the curves of my ears. I ask, "who am I?" but mean, "who is he?" It is a solved mystery that I want a more immediate answer to, though I know there is little satisfaction in instant gratification.

So I state the facts and have the fantasy, knowing it is all talk and no walk (much to their frustration).

But all the same, my lack of innocence and want of naivete call for more than I allow myself. My bed feels a little too big with just me in it and my flirtations a tad pointless without a goal. (Purposeless flirting feels directionless, if you can imagine that.) My pointed foot perpetually indicates blank space, a physical empty field myopia.

That's the contradiction and conflict-ion you see. There is nothing there, but my youth insists on fixing on it, only aware that I must one day see.

Third Place in Contest; Nice Review

I can't seem to break the third place string, but they're nice, nevertheless.

This one was for "To Andrew."

The review:

"In contrast to the darker preceding pieces, Henderson's thoughtful 'To Andrew' offers a downright lighthearted perspective on love and identity. Diligent readers of the weekly competition will note the reference to Henderson's 'Nobody - Nobody Special,' a piece that won 2nd place the week of June 22, 2010. Readers who take a particularly philosophical approach to life will appreciate the conclusion of 'To Andrew' most, but all writers should take heed: Henderson practices textbook rising/falling action, the imitation of which would behoove any new or young author."

The next piece I plan to enter is almost done. I really think it's first place material, and (if I dare say...) a masterpiece of short fiction.

Restless

You've always known better. Always.

From the moment he asked you to dance, darkened eyes raking up your illuminated body, you knew all that was to come.

Discovery. A breath in your ear, inhale and exhale to who you really are. You love him and you detest him, want him to be better, momentarily think he is, but know he never will be.

Exhilaration and boredom, constantly aware that swords and pentacles are only two points out of five. Completion does not live here.

She is a hard woman, but she likes to dance at parties, and he can't decide if he's a knight or a king, still in process or complete. He's deception and dependability, made of marble and of mirrors. Is he stagnation or change, or change in stagnation, or stagnation in change? (No matter how I lay the cards, it just won't come clear.)

He speaks literature like a writer, though he refuses to read, and flirts like he's in his cups, though he indulges "only at parties." I can't decide what to do with this fellow, any more than he can decide what to do with me. (I guess, restless, it's all about the journey.)