She always loved the woods
The sun light filtered through bright green leaves
The soft carpet made of grass
That her mom could never force her to vacuum.
She saw him there.
Her imaginary friend.
Is it still called an imaginary friend
When you're eighteen?
'I've gone insane,'
laying on the ground
finding patterns in tree branches.
'Because you can see me?'
he'd ask, laughing
sitting on top of a boulder
by the creek.
'That's not a good reason for going insane.'
'I'm talking to a figment of my imagination,'
she says, frowning.
'That isn't normal.'
'Who wants to be normal?'
he says, smiling a too perfect smile
framed by too perfect skin
and too perfect blue eyes.
'Don't be cliche,'
she says, rolling boring brown eyes
surrounded by blemished skin
complimenting straw colored hair
'I hate cliches.'
'I come from your imagination,'
he says, smirking,
light making his blonde hair glitter.
'I'm only cliche because you want me to be.'
She hadn't thought of him
In five years
And had no idea why she was now.
But for some reason
The man who had just ordered coffee from her
At the little cafe she worked at
Made her think of him
And his too perfect words.
So biting her lip
And handing him his drink
She quietly asked
'Do you like cliches?'