the truth your ex needs to hear

I realized it when you were asleep. You would sleep. And in the early dark, I wanted to go home.

Or really, just go elsewhere, spend time with other people who got the sense of my soul better. We could talk about the technicalities of a body, but a body is just a body, and my body didn’t really want to be on your bed, nor mine, if it required being next to you.

I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t love you, and I’m not sure I liked you that much either. We were close by earlier circumstance and choice. I outgrew you. 

I didn’t believe in love, and I didn’t know how to tell you, that it didn’t exist, that our relationship, was built on romanticisms that I didn’t feel, but sometimes bought into, for the sake of sustaining the relationship, because, how could I not want a boy, who often did his best, to sustain a long-term thing with me?

But I didn’t want you. You didn’t know me that well. You only wanted what you wanted to see, and I wasn’t sure if I didn’t want it that badly. And then I wanted for it to end, this alright-on-paper companionship that didn’t make me happy. So it was over, and I’m not sorry.

I wanted something. I wanted someone to love. And I’m looking for him.

It’s like peering into all these windows, & apartments, and I’m wandering all around town, on my own little journey on cobblestones & pavement, and I’m looking for him. And he’s out there. And I’m already in love with him. I can’t love you, because I don’t. And I don’t want to “fall in love” with you. I want to find him.

And I’ll know. Maybe I’ve already found him, or maybe I haven’t, but I’ll know.

It’ll be in the way we kiss, and I’ll know. And it’ll be in the way I’ll want to hold his hand while we wander, even though I don’t like holding hands. And it’ll be in the way, that I think I’m incredibly lucky, to’ve found him. And when he sleeps, I’ll get sentimental & sweet on the greys on his temple. And we will bake cookies, watch movies just to have an excuse to be close together, and maybe other things. And I’ll want to grow old with him, because we’re already old together.

It’s about love. I don’t want to waste my time on anything else.

truth

friday afternoon, while it rained like music on my skylight, i thought it'd be sweet to swing by, as a surprise, early in the evening, drop a kiss, a champagne rose, a whimsical memento, a book you'd love, a heartfelt handwritten note on the back of a constellation map, with your pleiades highlighted.

i could talk about the stars & signs, but i'd rather bring you a bottle of your favorite wine, & go slow with it. i love that you have a favorite. i love that there's another soul who loves dry floral whites, who loves some of the lit that i love, who loves in the same strange fluctuating & true way that i love.

today, i am feeling femme & dreamy because safety does that for me. i love your eyes, the way you gaze, your companions, the way you're not so far away when i need you close. i love sprawling out in my bed, feeling the way i feel about you, knowing i could spend my entire life feeling this way.

except, no.

hey ya, is a song. i could be blissed out, or i can sit up from this cute excursion. not that love is bad; it's like a bag of kit kats in my latest favorite flavor. it rains, and i love the rain in my hair. i love the walks without my umbrella, as long as my socks stay dry. i love wandering in the fog. i love dancing in my soul as i move through the city which holds me up so wonderfully.

i've got a guitar, a pen, a stage, a stool. i've got my voice, which i prefer in the quieter decibels, because it carries true. i prefer my hair, tucked behind my ear, and falling constantly in my face. i prefer my framed lenses than my natural blur scape of the world, my blindness.

through the dark focus of a pinhole, everything is beautifully sharp & clear, and this love for the world is alive in me.

i started with a love letter to you, but it's not about you.

easy things:

a. taking a shower
b. making coffee, (bustelo),
c. making tea, (earl grey, vanilla rooibos)
d. using the words: blue, sky
e. filling the beer basket in my fridge
f. laying in bed, on my stomach
g. walking around naked in my apartment
h. developing brief crushes (punk acoustic guitar boy, awkward charming clinical psych researcher, depressed ex-punk guitar hero boy on too many opiates, semi-shy nerdy hot rock band boy, semi-shy guitarist boy who looked better with a beard, boring academic psych researcher, russian-punk boy who plays summertime & the electric, depressing ex-wannabe punk nerd boy who loves motown, hot stalker nerdy doctor boy who calls me clementine or tangerine, beautiful dreaded steampunk graphic novelist boy who's had too much lifetime-pot, foodie southern writer boy who turned out to be awkward, bearded trombone boy whose voice was unsexy, trombone boy who i have no interest in meeting because he's a blondy, southern biologist nerd boy, punk boy, hipster faux-punk boy,)
i. making friends, network-zoning, bro-zoning, friend-zoning, i-don't-need-this-zoning
j. taking another shower, (extra-hot for guilt and/or anxiety, kneeling if needed)
k. baking brownies
l. guilt-spiraling
m. hugging my pillows, which smell nice; fresh summertime air & my own skin-scent
n. existential-state oscillation
o. playing music (pandora, guitar)
p. not making it to "z"
q. not being alone, being alone, being blasé, being disinterested, being mellow, being content, being distracted, being distracted by fun sharp things, being in love with paper, being in love with color, being in love with noir, being somebody else, being inspired, being comfortable, being bored with comfort & ease
r. watching a movie on a computer
s. coin-operated people/machines/toys/pets
t. winter in the shut window, summer in the open window, blue skies & clouds in both
u. breaking out in song
v. playing with my ipad
w. hanging upside down off the edge of my bed
x. procrastinating
y. making more coffee
z. triteness

hard things:

i. penises, tits, diamonds, glass, tables, concrete, the hardest level of video games
ii. taking vitamins
iii. packing up: my room, my apartment.
iv. the unbearable lightness of being
v. быть серьезнaya
vi. liquor, marbles, the desire to fuck things up
vii. blades, bottles, lamps & lightbulbs
viii. my teeth, bones, walls
ix. being a stellar soul
x. my guts

two truths and a lie:
- the sweetness will not be concerned with me
- alice: why won't you let me love you?
-

Dear somebody-that-I-could-fall-in-love-with,

I'd bake you cupcakes, once in a while, probably randomly, in the middle of the night.
You don't even really like cupcakes, because honestly, who could eat more than one? But I'd bake you them. They'd be bite-size, and they'll come in many flavors, because I know you like variety.  Chai, almond, lemon-poppy, vanilla, chocolate, tres leches. You'll have a favorite.

And you'll still be in the shadows of some old love. Or you're really jaded, and well, sex is sex, is kind of awesome. We all want love, but my god, these youthful bodies weren't meant to be wasted with pining & on imperfect timing. I mean, Romeo was in love with Rosaline 'til it was Juliet, and if he hadn't died from all the much needed excitement & drama, it'd probably be Beatrice next.
We'd be more of the Dante & Beatrice kind of people, by the way. Less by choice, and more by inherent nature; we have issues with romance & reality. We love from afar, on pedestals, with disinterest, have muses & ideals. And we write. Plenty of writing, but all of it, in our own private spaces.

When we're close, in the decisive moment, before growing distant, or close, I'll love the idea I've got of you. You'll love the naked visage of me. I'll realize, that I love kissing you.

We'll forget who we're supposed to be, shed those selves, favorite t-shirts for warm skin. Barriers.

In wet and soft, and hard-pressing mouths, I'll find myself.
I am a lockpick with a set of keys, and you are full of old, locked doors. In your hallway, my bare toes'll trace along the wooden floorboards, carefully caressing over the dark, cool grain. Water damage.
 
And this is how I will love you.

And I'll know it's love, and not just sex, because after doing it with you, I'm going to want to do it again, because it starts so much like a fire, a thing of heat & hunger, and consuming, because it's all about having, and I will have you, soul & body of my taking.

but the gods are all asleep

Dear Joan,

Do you ever lie, curled up on your bed, at four in the morning, and think, God, I’m a mess?

I can see you, in the dark, in my mind. Envision, is the better word.

Your eyes are blank, and open. You’re lying on your side, with your short, stiff, blonde-gray bob. You have wrinkles, things that your body wrought.

I think you’re a creature of restraint, although I’ve read that you hosted a party for the Ramones.

I suppose that you don’t actually lie in the dark.

Maybe you sit in chairs.

I don’t think that you write anymore. Not at four, in the morning. Your hands are stiff. The circulation goes out. Old wiring, and pretty, faulty bulbs. You have a frail body, but I don’t think of you as fragile, in any sense.

It’s always too cold, so much so, that you’re used to it, that the clammy iciness of your hands are comforting, to the few who’ve gotten close enough to you, but also to yourself. Mostly, primarily, to yourself.

It’s reassuring, the chill, in the soft of your fingers, and the cup of your hand, that armchairs, presses into your face. Cheekbone. Your jaw, under that flesh. Living bones are fragile, firm. The medial, orbital wall beneath your eyes. Light and capillaries. Knitwork of the gods.

That half of an inhale of air, of night, quiet apartments, and dim lighting. The city lingers in, titian and shadow. The sound of your own slow breath, streaming shallowly, into the bathtub of your lungs. You never take deep, full breaths, but you don’t know why. You try, but it never comes, never feels right.

You don’t sleep, but you breathe, like a sleeper, whose body will sometimes jerk in the night.

You are running, in your stillness, but your body dreams of falling. It’s a betrayal; you know. There is no flight in these bones, so you don’t fight, but you sit.

And sometimes, you lie down. You look at the light, and at your things, and you lie down, because your body wants it. You want it.

The pillows are kind, but you press your cheek against the sheets, and listen, to the bed. Soft creaks, and your heartbeat. Just like in the floor, when you were a young child. Great heights from unsteady tables. The running, back and forth, as fast, as hard as you could, slamming your body into those badly-painted iron fences.

How could sleep ever be enough? How could anything?