sometimes, when i write your first initial, it feels like i'm writing to myself, and then i remember the way you thought i was beautiful and caring and funny, and i never saw myself the way you did.
sometimes, when i write your full name, it feels like i'm writing to a stranger, but i didn't lay on my bedroom floor half undressed for a stranger and do the closest thing we knew to making love, and say i love you to a stranger.
sometimes, when i write about what we used to be, i think about what could have been, and where things went wrong, and i hate that, because you were never supposed to feel wrong. you were only supposed to fit into my side and kiss me goodnight on christmas eve and wake me up to santa and snow because, oh god how badly i wanted to spend christmas in michigan with you.
sometimes, when you text me after days and weeks and months of not speaking, my stomach fills with butterflies when i recognize the three digits of your area code, and i immediately save your number and reply, and then it's 12:17 am and you haven't replied in five hours and everything feels pathetic and lonely, and everyone telling me i need to block you is right.
sometimes, when my finger hovers over the block contact button, i shake a little bit and i think about how i promised you forever, and everybody else is holding onto me by my last string, praying to some god out there that i don't give up when you do, but it's getting later and you haven't replied, and we all know better than to think i'll really block your number this time.
sometimes, after i type out my message: i love you, and i miss you, and everyone is wrong because we could have been beautiful together, don't you agree? i remember that you don't, because beautiful people don't have to beg to be a masterpiece, it just happens.
october 28, 2014 : 12:19 am
When I think about how I'm in love with you, I hear piano music in my head. It crescendoes until the strings come in, gentle and sad, reminding me that I have no chance, letting me down softly from this cloud I'm in.
But it's right in the forte that I get lost. Right in the crazy pounding of the keys, passionate and full, shamelessly honest and strong and everything I want to be. There is no such thing as an infinite fermata, but if there were, it would go right there: hanging in the balance of you and me.
I was just sitting, waiting for my class to start, and I saw that girl, talking and laughing with friends. She talked with them but sometimes, frequently, her eyes switched to the left. So when I noticed that, I followed her gaze, and there was a group of boys sitting on the stairs. I couldn't tell which one she was looking at with those bright eyes until she smiled slightly when the blond one smiled at his friend. That was a really kind smile. Like she was telling herself : I am glad he is smiling.
Then days after, I saw him at the bus station. Not knowing why I started to stare at him. Until he smiled all of a sudden, throwing his gaze to the ground. And when I narrowed my eyes, I saw that girl walking on the opposite sidewalk.
I found that beautiful. And sad. Beautiful, because among all those people at school, the two of them noticed each other. And sad, because they are still apart from each other.
Sometimes you both admit that you like each other but you realize that you don't like each other enough to be in a relationship.
And then you're stuck in an awkward place between friendship and relationship where you still get jealous of the other person's romantic interests but you don't feel like a relationship is the right next step.
That's real life, folks. And I don't know what to do about it.
I secretly keep a list of all the kindest things you've said to me, those things which warmed my heart and made me feel special. I know it's stupid and maybe even a little creepy, but I have this horrible habit of doubting people's intentions, their faithfulness. I know that if I can pull out my little book of your sweet nothings and read a few, I can be reminded that this suspicion and doubt is all in my head, and that you do care.
It's you. It's you all the time. It's you at 2 AM when I'm balancing on the tightrope between consciousness and slumber, it's you at 3PM when school just gets out and I rush to our place on the last bench to the right nearby the theater, it's you at 6PM while I'm staring down at my dinner, rearranging my peas or rice grains to look like your name. It's such a shame how you don't notice the extended glances I send you during class, and the sheepish smiles and flushes that follow when you catch me. I know I'm only a teenager with a thousand metaphors for this so-called "love", but it gives me a tingling sensation of pins and needles that replaces the numbness that used to linger beneath my skin in a way that only you could trigger. I know you don't feel the same because of the way you look at her. Maybe, just maybe, if I had her figure, or her hair, or her smile, or the cute freckles that resemble constellations as shown in her brown eyes. Maybe if I had her sense of humor, or her laugh, or her ability to carry on a conversation without any holes between my speech. I have no idea what love is, but the way you make me feel is exactly how warmth in a bitter cold winter feels, no matter how much I'm imagining that loving heat. But what if there's something greater buried beneath these useless metaphors and awkward first impressions? What if there's something more that chocolate waterfall hair, or stars littered across cheeks and irises? I'll learn eventually. Not this time. Not next time. Not the time after that. Hopefully, I learn not to fall in love with boys who don't love boys, like me. Maybe I'll learn not to fall in love with boys that like cute galaxy freckles and long hair. Not to fall in love with boys that like girls smaller than them with tiny waists. I'll learn, eventually. But until I learn, I'll binge on the little attention you give me now.
-The boy you don't look at twice.
Three of the four pillows on the bed we picked out together are mine--two for you, two for me.
There are two water glasses beside the picture of us on the nightstand--one for you, one for me.
Two toothbrush heads for the electric toothbrush on the bathroom counter--one for you, one for me.
Two towels hang on the hook on the bedroom door--the light blue one for you, and the dark blue one for me.
My coffee maker sits next to your hot chocolate on the kitchen counter. The saucepan I bought you and the cast-iron skillet you bought me are on the stove.
I cook dinner for us, and you make omlettes for breakfast.
Domesticity's not boring when you're making home with someone you love.
So you know that scene in "500 Days of Summer" where Joseph Gordon-Levitt is dancing in the streets to that super catchy Hall and Oats song and everything is right in the world and the sun shines a little bit brighter and there's only love in the world? Right. Well I made you laugh today, and I felt like that.
It's really weird to me that your smile makes me want to dance to catchy 80's music, but I mean I guess there could be worse things, you know?
It really is the little things you come to appreciate. The way their nostrils flare as they laugh. Or the way the sunlight makes their eyes sparkle and causes their eyelashes to cast thin, spidery shadows down their cheeks. Or how when you lay there holding each other you can feel their heart speed up. Don't focus on the big things but rather the small things. They are what you end unconsciously remembering even after time has passed