James Dean (1931-1955)

Look at you, still in your ethereal motionless existence. 

Stoicly picturing how the pieces of your hair falls into place like a museum carefully building its white dainty walls. 

Look at you, it must be extensively difficult to grow up that bewitchingly beautiful. 

Is it hard to carry the weight of those lingering eyes and the prodigious baggage of everyone's desires? 

I will never know how it feels nor will I be the object of yours from a great distance. Ships will bitterly sink and the shores will lose its rugged and herculean waves, 

still I'd find my wandering soul beneath the surface of regrets and unearthed questions I have kept. 

Face created like pastry, carefully crafted by hands polished in the most sacred way. How I wish to touch, how I wish to run my palms and cursed fingertips through one day. 

James Dean, look at you. With eyes an open window to the lost epitome of thy forgotten soul, two seats apart has never felt this faraway and bygone, through the dark and through hell, through forbidden shots of despair disguised in liquor and mint shards, and through every single second of longing stares,

James Dean, look at you. How did life came to be remarkably unfair? 

It wasn't right, it was painted in multiple shades of wrong. It was in burning embers of red, the faded color of sunlight and the notion of us was coming undone in the brightest gloom of blue,

Stoicly picturing how the pieces of your hair falls into place like a museum building carefully its white dainty walls. 

Look at you, it must be extensively difficult to grow up that bewitchingly beautiful. 

James Dean, look at you. Will those eyes find colors in mine too?