not two more years, i hope, like bloc party says.
if you write it down, it will be less a part of you. less.
---
november 21, 1316, lunch at school with moleskine:
we always referred to the past. the beginning. our relationship was one grand getting-to-know-you movement. we reveled in the novelty. that night by the fountain. the novelty of resonance for me. the novelty of me for you.
me being me, the novelty never wore off. me being me, me being naive and sheltered and discovering and searching. but the novelty wore off for you. i knew you and you knew me and things fell apart. towards the end i find you always saying, "it's good enough for me to have known you." what happened to sticking it out?
it would be better if we were strangers. twitter friends. friends by the one hundred and fortieth character. one hundred and sixty through text.
being but a stranger i could talk about you like i talk about the bus driver. your hair looks better longer. your hands look firm, arms lean. sure. steady. embraced by them, held close by them, it feels like i won't be able to wriggle out. it feels safe. comfortable. when you're tired your eyes are red and glazed over and it makes me want to give you a cup of hot chocolate, because you like chocolate. or maybe just the chocolate milk powder, because you like that more. your eyes used to be searching. wanting to discover something. after the months of silence they look lost.
being an acquaintance i could talk about you like i talk about the cartoonist. you send me a message that isn't for me but is about me. Adi's such a kewl gal, your message says, We really relate. i laugh and never tell you about this, and there is a warm feeling inside that says i have finally found a real friend, something worthwhile. you jog to my school to exchange books and lend me prison break season one. you show me your new haircut, it's awfully short, and you detest it when you hear that i prefer the longer hair. you check up on me every day and i realize i have to adjust to using up phone credit more often. one night you lift my chin up to bring my lips to yours and i am wrecked. Things won't change if you don't want them to change, you say. i sit and wonder how you could be so sure. i don't want them to change, your sureness is reassuring, five days later i say it and change happens. overnight. months later you say, "It was real."
it gets harder to write down as it grows so i will stop there. it is fragmented as it is. too much to say.
this story must be futile. except to me. you text today with exclamation marks and smiling faces like nothing has happened and suddenly a morning full of focus and productiveness is thrown off balance by this little text that asks How are you and says I miss you. and i am aware this time, i am aware of the sudden sinking feeling, the heavy chest, the little vivid memories of your heart. to think i had succeeded for a month sitting with these little vivid memories, acknowledging that they are soon to be gone, convincing them that they are not real, that they are merely conjured by my own little tiny pathetic heart. little vivid memories that do not have much to stand for, for they are little - we weren't even together, it was one-sided, you were just playing, it was only a fucking week, i was just too sensitive - and this story is obscure and insignificant and altogether a giant of a deviation.
and then today this message nullifies all my effort with the fact that i replied. and as expected, you didn't.
if you write it down, it will be less a part of you. less.
---
november 21, 1316, lunch at school with moleskine:
we always referred to the past. the beginning. our relationship was one grand getting-to-know-you movement. we reveled in the novelty. that night by the fountain. the novelty of resonance for me. the novelty of me for you.
me being me, the novelty never wore off. me being me, me being naive and sheltered and discovering and searching. but the novelty wore off for you. i knew you and you knew me and things fell apart. towards the end i find you always saying, "it's good enough for me to have known you." what happened to sticking it out?
it would be better if we were strangers. twitter friends. friends by the one hundred and fortieth character. one hundred and sixty through text.
being but a stranger i could talk about you like i talk about the bus driver. your hair looks better longer. your hands look firm, arms lean. sure. steady. embraced by them, held close by them, it feels like i won't be able to wriggle out. it feels safe. comfortable. when you're tired your eyes are red and glazed over and it makes me want to give you a cup of hot chocolate, because you like chocolate. or maybe just the chocolate milk powder, because you like that more. your eyes used to be searching. wanting to discover something. after the months of silence they look lost.
being an acquaintance i could talk about you like i talk about the cartoonist. you send me a message that isn't for me but is about me. Adi's such a kewl gal, your message says, We really relate. i laugh and never tell you about this, and there is a warm feeling inside that says i have finally found a real friend, something worthwhile. you jog to my school to exchange books and lend me prison break season one. you show me your new haircut, it's awfully short, and you detest it when you hear that i prefer the longer hair. you check up on me every day and i realize i have to adjust to using up phone credit more often. one night you lift my chin up to bring my lips to yours and i am wrecked. Things won't change if you don't want them to change, you say. i sit and wonder how you could be so sure. i don't want them to change, your sureness is reassuring, five days later i say it and change happens. overnight. months later you say, "It was real."
it gets harder to write down as it grows so i will stop there. it is fragmented as it is. too much to say.
this story must be futile. except to me. you text today with exclamation marks and smiling faces like nothing has happened and suddenly a morning full of focus and productiveness is thrown off balance by this little text that asks How are you and says I miss you. and i am aware this time, i am aware of the sudden sinking feeling, the heavy chest, the little vivid memories of your heart. to think i had succeeded for a month sitting with these little vivid memories, acknowledging that they are soon to be gone, convincing them that they are not real, that they are merely conjured by my own little tiny pathetic heart. little vivid memories that do not have much to stand for, for they are little - we weren't even together, it was one-sided, you were just playing, it was only a fucking week, i was just too sensitive - and this story is obscure and insignificant and altogether a giant of a deviation.
and then today this message nullifies all my effort with the fact that i replied. and as expected, you didn't.
2 comments:
I'm replying here so that if he does get to read this and if anyone gets to read this will know that you are worth more than what this boy is treating you for.
I understand the melancholy Slick. But be melancholy for the self that you lost, and leave just little for the boy.
aww... i thought you were just gonna laugh :( ahahah
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