of montreal I think I saw a black liquid line of mixed tears and mascara running down your cheek looking readily to fall on the floor. I'm sure there is more than one reason why I'm home on a Saturday night while everyone else is out having a ball. I assure you this has nothing to do with parents. So why am I stuck in a house lousy with hotel furniture and decorations? The reasons I'm not sure of, and the things that elude me, are probably more important, but I'll admit I push everyone away. I'm alone, and I hate it, and I'm dredding tomorrow when it happens again. I wish I had a book to read, but I've read each in my collection at least six times, and I cannot bear to read another over until I read something fresh and new. I want to read about the guilt and pressure of teenagism and feel the innocence of a child. I'm not ready for my birthday, yet it's only another year. I have a few more until college, and even then that is barely enough. I fear I'm being forced to grow up by parents who didn't get a childhood and would never understand. Look into my eyes and tell what you see, is it pain or is something you can even speak of? I feel alittle like dying and a lot like a victim. I can see your smile when I blink, and I'm holding back from opening my eyes just to see your pretty face. John and Gretchen are a marvelous couple and I feel alittle hurt, even though it's not my place to be hurt. Somehow a small flying insect made it's way into my house, and weaved through the dark halls into the only lighted room where I sit and he's flying uncautiously around, landing where he likes and he even let me touch him once. This little flying creature reminds of John in a million ways and it's only making me sadder and wishing this flying memoir of John would just leave me alone. I thought I saw a lover on my doorstep and a trustworthy companion but after I let her in she was only a laughter of a friend. I have no idea where I got the idea of a lover standing on my doorstep waiting to take me away from the pain in my life, and then I remembered a letter I had almost forgotten in my months of growing up, and I let the hurt shine in my eyes and let them go soft, and let my mouth sit quietly without a word and I hoped for all that we were making the best of our lives and turning out like the adults we once dreamed of. now I want nothing but to be a kid. Would it be too far to say I love you? I think I missed my chance, and I have no idea how to move on, and I'm letting my heart mend itself, and letting myself get rearranged into the new wave trend, sucumming to whatever heart wrenching lyrics will pour of the speakers mounted safely on the walls. These lyrics that match my emotions, and the emotions that go with a broken heart. Romance is a dying art, and I fear all the romantics have disappeared.