#hannahharley

[untitledno27]

I tried and tried and tried to write your description. I ripped it up, tore it apart, crumpled it beyond recognition. The English language has such a vast selection of words, and it seems too cliche to say that I can never find a combination of them to describe you. Your aura, pulsing collected confidence and a pleased disposition mixed with a short temperament, seems nearly impossible to experience, much less force into the strict confines of words. Your justified pride almost mirrors Mr. Darcy’s, yet Jane Austen takes a novel to describe her complicated main man. Your welcoming nature, your soft delight, your mysterious conflict all comprise the most uniquely fascinating soul I’ve ever been privileged to experience. 
And yet, I admire your being from afar. I glance at your hidden emotion and passionate dedication with the painful reality of your indifference to me. You are my painful reality

[untitledno27]

I toyed with the romantic notion that I’d ever encounter him again. I roamed along the river’s edge, hoping to happen upon him. Perhaps he’d be reading poetry or simply staring at distant mountains, deep in pensive thought. I sat in my favorite place, praying he’d remember that I used to frequent it. After all, only he ever knew it was my favorite spot. Perhaps he’d arrive there, under the soft rustle of the willow leaves, excited and surprised to find me seeking shade under my favorite tree. Perhaps I’d tell him I missed him. Perhaps he’d kiss me. Perhaps we’d go for a walk down that hidden dirt path or get ice cream with sprinkles from that parlor across the bridge. 
I look down the bustling avenue. My dear, do you still roam these streets? I gaze into the pizza shop you loved. My dear, do you still eat your calzone with extra cheese? I hear the water splash from the puddles under taxis’ tires. My dead, do you still love the pounding of rain drops on your skin? I walk along the cobblestones. My dear, do you still compliment their beauty every time you walk over them? I smell the pollution fueled exhaust from the bus. My dear, do you still get easily confused and fearful of public transportation? I hear a soft whisper in the win; I hope, beyond all logical reasoning, that you are standing behind me, delighting in the sun’s reflection on the buildings or complaining of the suffocating heat, just as you would’ve today. Perhaps you would’ve today

[untitledno27]

Dreams/Despair

I am sick of sleeping. I am painfully uninterested in seeing my mind perform my utmost hopes and desires only to hear my dreams mock me as I wake. I am woefully pained by this blatant display of power. My mind jokingly delights in tricking my innocent heart into feeling so powerfully for a silly, imagined dream. Oh, and my gullible heart falls for it every time. 
My heart feels his soft green eyes lock with mine; his quiet, deep voice shakes me. Each laugh fills my heart with unprecedented glee; each kiss is a perfect blend of tender care and whirling desire. He grins in between our silent moments; he breathes out a small chuckle. I can scare contain my excited joy with each passing heartbeat in his presence. 
Then I wake up, fooled, yet again, by my mischievous mind. 
I am sick of sleeping.

[untitledno27]

I am the proud owner of a wandering soul with a fiery longing for newness and a destructive passion for raw, unbridled experiences. With a casual yet paralyzing fear of complacency and repetition, I believe the hypocritical notion that one can be courageous and terrified in the same painful and pitiful moment.

[untitledno27]

Wishing You Were Here

I saw a picture of you today

Your hair has grown

Wishing you were here

  I ate at that restaurant you love

It smelled like that chilly Tuesday

Wishing you were here

  I watched your favorite movie

My lone laugh echoed at your favorite part

Wishing you were here

  I kissed him

I reached up to run my fingers through your hair

Wishing you were here

  I stared at the patterns the streetlights make through these blinds

You hated these cheap blinds

Wishing you were here

  I packed that stupidly small suitcase

The shampoo bottles from that weekend were there

Wishing you were here

  I went to our favorite coffee shop

My latte smelled wrong without your espresso

Wishing you were here

  I slept in my bed

There is a depression where you slept

Wishing you were here

  And while I’m wishing you were here,

I’ll try to forget that you were

Wishing I was her

[untitledno27]

March 6, 2014

He had a quiet confidence displayed in his strong yet confined stature that made his low voice all the more enticing to me. He was tall, almost ridiculously so. His faded green eyes suggested small defeat, but his stance, his physical presentation hinted toward an inner pride. He was never too proud, but he silently knew of his greatness. 

I delighted in his rare smile, his casual chuckle, and his shy demeanor. I found myself utterly entranced within moments of our first meeting nearly 8 months ago.

We became friends, and my admiration of him grew daily. I had never been so enamored with such a man. 

He was harsh, a former Marine and a hardened man, but I knew he was desperately seeking a place where he could be soft, sensitive, feeling. But the world, a harsh, unfeeling place forced him to quiet his inner pain. He never spoke of it, but I suspected that he possessed an level of inner turmoil that I could never understand. 

His laugh, at first a pleased chuckle turned into uproarious hysterics, but only following the funniest of interactions. I occasionally forced him into such a fit of unbridled joy. Oh, and I would be lying if I said my heart didn't leap for joy as his hearty laughter leapt from within him over his quiet suppression of emotion. 

I was romantically invisible to him, of that I was certain. I was his friend; nothing more. But I dreamt in pensive sadness of his acceptance of my great admiration of his conflicting personalities, his light and his dark, of which we all harbor as both friend and enemy. His light he hid as frequently as his dark. He had no intention of hinting to the world that he felt all the pain and pleasures on an extreme level. Not only did he feel it all, they forced each decision despite his claim to logical thought over emotion.

But his suppression, his quieted emotions forced him to be conflicted, confused. On rare occasion, he danced with hypocrisy. I loved this puzzled personality of a good hearted man, intent on anonymously improving the world.

He never begged for credit or admiration of his good deeds; he never discussed them. He existed, a beautiful soul lying under a handsome exterior. His pleasant, patient nature tucked away under his mild negativity and intense cynical nature. 

Oh, how I dreamt of his kiss. It was sure to be as surprising as his soul, harsh and soft existing within the same euphoric moment. His touch, a probable mirror of his conflicting personality, had to be an intriguing mix of tender excitement and intense passion. 

But his dreamlike body was not the reason for my casual study of his physicality; his sharp mined, ever present and constantly witty made him irresistible to me. His deep bantering voice and pleasant jokes made me crave him with such powerful need that I could scarce breathe around him for fear of giving my want away. 

Restricted by my paralyzing fear of his rejection, I craved him in silence. My somber, painful want of his friendship conflicted with my repressed desire for his affection. Unfazed by my aching sadness, I delighted in imaginative day dreams to satisfy my hunger for his radiant perfection. 

[untitledno27]

la peur, ou l'absence de

He was haunted, for the world is overpopulated by demons. The demons that haunted him weren’t even his; he claimed these destructive devils as his own to save the world from the pain. He endearingly nicknamed them the discharge of the living. The price that comes with living, the world’s emotional runoff. Occasionally, but rarely, his fear flickered across his face, as if one of them had grabbed ahold of his thoughts and turned them dark, if only for a spilt second. I think he delighted in the idea that the demon he picked up in Montmarte could’ve been one of Hemingway’s or perhaps the devilish company he befriended beside the Seine haunted Voltaire. "Demons have stories," he breathed in a whisper one particularly sunny morning over coffee, his eyes wild with intrigue. 
“Are they better than ours?” I questioned as I stirred the cream in my coffee. 
“Always,” he grinned, his eyes drifting in and out of the madness of it all. What drew me to him, his appreciation and constant quest for beauty, also drew the demons. But then again, what was the difference?

[untitledno27]

d'espérer

He was a whirlwind of a man, comprised of increasing enthusiasm mixed with an engulfing, dreamlike calm. His words, twisted by his subtle accent, were spoken with such fervor that all I could ever gather from his excited speech was his deep passion. A type of passion that was latched onto his very being. He would look at these paintings, these incroyable masterpieces, and his soul would swell. His being would ignite; his passions would rise. He had this intense pursuit for pieces that would subject him to a form of enthusiasm and utter awe.

But what I found most beautiful, most humbling in his character was the pieces of art that worked their way into his soul. The masterpieces done by the universally acknowledged Michelangelo or Picasso, naturally, would infuse him. But he found beauty, inspirational beauty in these stunningly random locations. The iron of a fence, we returned to that beauty for a month (excluding, of course, the one Sunday it rained in a spectacular fashion, and we watched the rain fall on his boots, not the iron fence). The subtle curve of an apple, not the green ones. Red apples, he told me one night as the moonlight happily danced across his face, are far more aesthetically pleasing, though less tasty, than their green counterparts. The inconsistency of the cobblestones and clacker of tourists’ suitcases rolling across the stones. The space between the ribs, a hole in our internal armor. The silent understandings that pass between strangers, lovers, friends.