I remember a time when I wouldnt fall asleep because I just wanted you to stay awhile, so I’d act like I wasnt tired or sleep with one eye open or maybe even two eyes open if it was you next to me. I’d always ask you questions, open ended questions, one end extended to you and the other held tightly by me. It was a cruel game for my eyes, but it was always worth it. It was a time where i was a light sleeper, easily awoken by the sound of your breathing or all those elaborate stories you’d tell to other people, and I was a part of them. I even remember the times I wanted to sleep, wanted to close my eyes and leave some questions unanswered, unasked. But I couldn’t, the rise and fall of your chest was an earthquake and the vibrations at three am would keep me ever awake. Since then, things have changed and thats not necessarily a bad thing. And I dont move, I dont shake along with the earthquake of your breath and I dont ask questions. It’s more like a weight allowed to sink, than an earthquake, and I think that maybe I had it wrong all along. Because the falling is effortless and as it gets darker and darker I am somehow able to see clearer.
She was laughing even as we kissed and kissed again. There is no better taste than someone else’s laughter in your mouth.
It’s almost like you’re looking at me, but no i think you’re looking past me, not to be confused with seeing through me or overlooking me. No, it’s more like you’re sizing me up without even seeing me. And once I’m categorized to you, I’m boxed in, in this grid with maybe a name or a number that you store in the back of your mind for when you get bored. And you’re bored. Not to be confused with boring, because you still entertain me for days at once. And I’m banging at your door, but you’re not home. Circling from frame to frame, trying to figure out where you go when you’re not home. When you’re not bored. I only see one side of you, and this one sided-ness is all I need. With this one side is a million parts, pieces of you that I really can’t ever put together, and I probably should stop trying. Sometimes you give me bits and pieces, but I think that’s only because you like hearing yourself talk. But the problem is, I like hearing you talk too. And at these times, I want to open the windows and become more than just the stagnant air within this one tiny frame of a house, and stand in front of the fridge and cool down. Maybe if I talked too we could get this air moving. But somehow I get the feeling that if I opened my mouth, the rope would fall from my mouth and you’d tug and never let go, and not in a romantic way. I’d be tied. You’d be bored. You’re always bored.
"One day the war will be over, and I can return to my poem."
why dont people have pizza parties anymore like hell yeah invite me over to your house to eat pizza and then i’ll leave that’s the shit i do like