A Talented Artist

Central Park is where I caught my first glimpse of her, wearing a fancy red dress that never fit her personality and chasing her large white hat that was caught in an unforgiving updraft through the safari playground, on 91st street.

I love my park, always there, when I need it, never leaves me, doesn't judge, doesn't stare. No one can say that about anything, except Marcy.

There are no words that give her justice. Perfect, that's it. But even that, even that doesn't do it. I wish that I could paint her with words, but there are no colors bright enough to encompass her vivacity. She is like that magnificent red dress, unique and elegant, with a hidden shyness.

Her smile flaunts confidence and beauty, but her posture tells me, tells only me, a special secret of a timid girl, a head full of uncertainties. I am in love her because I have them too. Boundless insecurities.

People look at me, I know what they think. A sad excuse for a man. I know it. My long shaggy hair grows to cover those obscene scars on my face.

My belly grows rounder with each passing day. My friends laugh and liken me to a Weeble.

Weebles, a child's play thing. They are loved, loved and played with. Me? Nothing. Always just despair and pity.

Those people, those devils; they are not my friends!

It took a while to break through her defenses. She lives within a tiny sheltered shell that fits in my pocket; she is with me always. It's too small for her, much too small, and I understand that...she has lived there much too long. I feel it too, trapped inside myself and I am breaking out to her, because she needs me. She only needed to be comfortable; she saw that within me, that is why we are perfect.

I had never seen a valuable gemstone before; never before I had I looked into her eyes. Brilliant amethyst. A passionate chill engulfs my body; my breath is stolen when I think of her precious stones. They flirt without intent; wide with innocence.

Her knowledge is gained more from the stories and lessons of others than from personal experiences. She wants those experiences; I her eyes illustrate a longing to live, to feel, to make mistakes.

Her long, exquisite chestnut hair reaches the ground, so that I may ascend her prison and liberate her. Save her from the evils that are the world. The same that vehemently always consume me; when I am alone, no matter what or where. I cannot let that happen to her.

She draws gazes from all directions; her magnificence creates admirers from

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