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I am more alive today than I was yesterday. + I am burning under the warmth of your body. You are making me coffee. You are kissing my face. I fall back asleep. You’re sweet but you’re not helping me. + I’m mad, truly; I am half-insane. I think I dreamed this all. + You are a bright thing and you are stunning even under fluorescent lights. You are a new thing that I am just now meeting. I love the everything of you. + Soon we will be misremembering the lyrics to the song we heard that night.
Every Time I Have Seen You, Part I. 1. We were at a beach at night for a party with the school’s theatre group. You were talking to a girl in a sad flannel shirt about Kafka. You had headphones around your neck. I hated you. 2. You rode the bus with me to see a Paul Newman movie in Santa Monica. I wanted to lean my head on your shoulder during the movie. I’d started having sex with people and had forgotten what it was like to just exist next to a person, to want nothing more. We ate sandwiches after and you walked me to my building, said you had to go. I listened to love songs all night. 3. A year later. I was standing outside of the Humanities building waiting for James Franco to leave his classroom. You approached me with a bag of candy. We stood there, eating it. 4. You sent me a Facebook message past 3 in the morning saying you wanted to see me. We met at a hookah bar a few nights later. We discussed a million things that mattered so much to us. A girl walked by who you’d fucked. I quoted the Neutral Milk Hotel song that goes “god is a place you will wait for the rest of your life,” but you weren’t familiar. 5-25. We’d meet at the bar and smoke, then buy cigarettes and smoke some more, carcinogens crowding into our lungs. We’d go to the video store and rent movies we hadn’t seen, and watch them on your bed. On Valentine’s Day we got high and ate churros and watched The Life Aquatic. We went to see screenings of old films that we loved. We wrote. You said you would have sex with me, but that you knew you’d hate me after. You thought I was insane. You introduced me to your best friend, and I thought his face was beautiful, more beautiful than yours. But. I fell in love with you. 26. You met me at the art museum. David Lynch was there, giving a talk on transcendental meditation. (I hope that the artists I mention in these lines can imply the absurdity of life in those months, a stranger to Los Angeles, that feeling I had that maybe I didn’t exist.) You brought a girl with you. She had statement glasses and long copper hair. I wanted her. I loved you. You talked to her and I realized that I was only a cheap facsimile of her, to you. There was nothing I could give you that she hadn’t already laid out on the table. 27. We went to see M, and you told me it was fate that we met. 28. I met the girl from the museum. We drank a bottle of bourbon and listened to In the Aeroplane Over the Sea on the grass outside your building. I won’t say if she kissed me but I’ll say that I wanted her to. I told her that I loved you. She said that was a bad idea. I went to your room, drunk and manic and sad, and explained it all to you. You said ok. You messaged me on Facebook days later saying we couldn’t go on like we had before. I didn’t understand the melodrama. I didn’t understand that you couldn’t understand. I hated that you were making me think in these vague clichés. I hated you. I hated you. 29. I started dating your best friend. I fell for him the moment he kissed me. You kept sliding into the conversation. I began to realize that I would never stop imagining a different scenario in which you loved me, but that that didn’t matter. I could go my whole life half in love with you,
and you could go through your whole life forgetting about me, or I could accept you as the strange figure that once haunted me, and then move on. I could just walk away. I kissed your best friend on the roof of a tall building in the middle of the city. I saw the ocean and downtown and the mountains and a hundred thousand lights in between. I loved it. I loved it all. 30. We went to your house. You welcomed us in. I knew you didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to be there, but no one said anything. I was with him, and I was ok. 31. The last time I saw you, it might not have been you at all. You were walking to the bus stop, and I thought it was you, but maybe it wasn’t. It looked like your back, and it looked like the way you run your fingers through your hair. But it could have been a stranger. I saw you walking and I saw you get lost in a crowd that was crossing the street.
A Collection of Messages from OK Cupid
SOME GIRLS The gallery of women’s faces hangs on his walls; he has sketched us. The dark witch in oils; her breasts peaking from black lace, eyes held in deep precision knives. She wanted a cheap fuck but fell in love. Girl with a flower crown and fur coat, liked French pop and only smoked cloves. Her mouth opens for crooked teeth, she asked for a long romance and got a cough. Light white creature, in a long gown. Sipping from a mug of tea in the cold. Lips chapped, she could not have been more charming. He was a disappointment. Red hair and a young face, watercolor smeared around her cheeks, blush, she was a child. The one he loved who ran to Seattle. My own eyes looking back at me in a reminder.
Rejected Facebook statuses: I. I got a love letter on Facebook. It read: “You are the only good thing about the Internet.” a. When I write about him, I am the most myself. I so rarely feel a connection between who I am and what I am – the what being my physical body, the who being my thoughts and feelings, I guess that’s a decent way of splitting the dichotomy – but when I think of the shape of his face I’m whole. III. I’m very much in love with five people. IV. I am in directing class. My professor calls Deniro ‘Bobby.’ I do not think he has watched a TV show since 2000. Someday I will be a director, I tell myself. V. For about a week I kept being followed by the Belgian movie Man Bites Dog. It was the same week I watched Upstream Color while on Seroquel/reading Cicero’s The Dream of Scipio, and was very freaked out that when the voiceover in UC quoted Thoreau saying the sun was a morning star, I was reading a line in Cicero about planetary orbs. Seemed too similar. a. I watched Man Bites Dog eating a quesadilla with Ian and a few days later was in the trailer of a famous actor and saw a poster for the film leaning on a counter. It was very strange. VI. I’m so glad you moved out of state, to be honest. VII. I am obsessed with scenarios where people have to play life-size chess. VIII. The guy I was having sporadic sex with got back with his ex and moved to New York the day after we last fucked. It was really weird. IX. Watching a TV movie about a guy with a watch that can stop time. X. Every Starbucks in the world plays the same music, so we will never truly be apart. XI. Being with someone who was in love six months ago is really, really hard.
An apology stains the room and I twist my fingers together with uncertainty. Remember, I have never been here before. There is a spite to me, true, I act knowingly, a snake— but I will burn every word I wrote for him in a funeral pyre at your feet.
Break my neck so I can look at you wherever you are. I don’t want to miss you.
I was just practicing being alone and sometimes the lonely rush of water from the bathroom helps that or maybe just the too-big world swallowing us up. I stubbed my toe on some rough memories last night, crouched down low, almost impossible to see in the dark- past, future, third person it all sort of looks familiar, but then again so do strangers who walk in front of me at the supermarket. We just give and take, and go in that incredibly awful sweetness, zigzagging what is most important, casting it aside like shoes that are too small and bent forks. But I was watching, I was staring in that way that makes my mother bashful, wise eyes that she once said she was afraid of when they first brought me to her. Hello world, I know your tricks even though I wasn't even born yesterday.
My love, I have been trying to work on a long poem for you all day but it's not coming out the way I want it to. I can't stop thinking about you, I've been watching videos of your performance all day and I just feel so young, young and naive and I get butterflies in my stomach like I am speaking to you for the very first time. I love you more than anything. I am not sure how I have lived 20 years without having you as apart of my life. But even saying so, I think, somehow, some way, you've always been apart of me. I can feel your absence now beating inside my chest, and it hurts, because I miss you, but I know that this is good because it's more help to get me to you, in the flesh. My life will be complete when I'm with you, touching you and kissing you and sharing my body with you and laughing with you. I cannot wait to start my life, and there is no one on this earth I would rather do it with. I love you, my sweet boy. xoxo Yours, always -M
This is all so surreal to me. I fear one day I'm going to wake up and this will all be a dream. A remarkably real dream, one where I was mostly lucid and miserably mistaken. You are my sweet, sweet boy. My love. My best friend. When we talk I feel like I've known you for years. I am truly, madly, and deeply in love with you. Please love me until I'm nothing. Until I am a speck on the inside of a pine box. Love me until it hurts. I will never stop loving you.
TEENAGE SUICIDE: DON’T DO IT !
Johnny hanged himself in Grammy’s basement The dawn breaking, a champagne bottle exploding On New Years Biting red words stain Splattering accusations The day fades to gray You begin to wonder What death will Taste Like
I don’t miss you at all.
Best Depressed, Most Depressed//Least Erotic, Most Neurotic is dedicated to nobody because we hate everyone. xoxoxoxo
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