Dangerous Fantasies

Dangerous Fantasies

Fantasies are dreams high on ecstasy.
The purest form stuck between the interludes of reality and fiction.
You believe you need what you intensely desire.
You craft and spin, lick the edges of and roll with
your imaginary philosophies.
Soon you forget that your fantasy is only an illusion.
You ostensibly appear conscious of a line
separating your hypnotic fantasy
from your single remaining shred of sanity.
It is a dangerous rope that you tiptoe upon,
grazing with the crown of your toes, afraid of making any noise.
The more egregious your delusion becomes,
the narrow tight rope drowns itself in a bottle of wine.
The warning signs drunkenly dance,
drumming feverishly with their tap shoes
immersed in this hypnotic dream -like state
saturated in the magical energy of what could be.
The bewitching rays stroke the smooth valley of your sad cheeks.
You are in painfully in love with the girl whose green eyes match her green dress.
She has an infectious laugh that sounds
like a fusion of rain and cymbals.
You know she wants you.
You have obsessed over the way she flips her hair
so disarmingly over your broad shoulder,
so close you can smell the fruit of each and every tendril.
You memorize the inflection of every syllable
swimming around in the sensual sounds of her voice.
She's the inspiration behind your elaborate screenplay;
starring the flawless, nameless girl.
Every night her plump lips taunt you.
Her scent falls asleep on the fluffed pillows.
But when you awake there's no sign
of her satin green dress on the floor.
Your fantasy becomes a series of hallucinations
cataloged between helplessness and desperation.
When she smiles her impeccable smile
your desperation crumbles away.
The symphony floats around in your head
strumming the most charming chords.
This delicate dream survives by thin fabric
sewn together by your ingenious creativity.
This blanket provides one
matchstick worth of warmth
for every big bucket
of overflowing anxiety and manic.
Time seems long and cruel.
Then you see her for the second time.
You yearn to be close to her so you can
wrap yourself in the taste of her nightly potion.
You try to remember her dreamy perfume
laced with her sticky- sweet sweat as you walk toward her.
But the memory of her aroma is veiled by the sudden putrid smell
of musty cologne and cheap cigarettes.
When she tilts her neck
to splay her hair over her tattered dress
you notice her green eyes have flecks of
boring brown.
When she smiles her crooked smile
and laughs
it sounds like murderous thunder on shattered glass
Your fantasy of this heavenly fawn
is broken,
you've awoken
and your high is gone.