3/4/16
I’ve got a feeling that this is what love is, and I knew I had to write you to let you know that it’s back. I don’t know what you’ve done but in my chest I feel a crack, and that’s not normal. I guess nothing about me is, but this is something else. This is wind and water and fire. I’m trying so hard to explain what I mean without getting lost in the poetry. This is not poetry, I want to cry. There is no beauty in the sickness I feel when I imagine your ghost by my side; it sends chills down my sides. It feels like metal poles in my throat and now I know what it was in those dreams that would suffocate me. I swear sometimes I see overexposed clips of the past projected in front of me, flickering and glaring. Did they even happen? And is this love? I’m not sure. Sometimes I think you planted a seed in my ear while I was sleeping and now there’s a tiny man that looks just like you wandering around in the empty corridors of my mind, silently smiling and swaying and touching things he shouldn’t.
I don’t want to control it anymore, I’m through holding my heart together. I swear it’s only been two days and I’m losing my mind. I wish I knew if this was love. I wish I didn’t push so hard and explode at nights when I’m all alone. I wish I wasn’t exhausted all the time and stupid and teary and I don’t understand why I can’t want to be with you forever, but I just can’t and I love you so much but goodbyes are inevitable when it comes to us. I know all that, but right now I just want you, just in this second more than anything, and that has to count for something. That I can feel like that because I have to see you again and I can’t even think about any other possibilities or my heart might just might stop.
I wish you could see me now. I don’t know what’s going on. Is this love? Please someone answer me, tell me, what the fuck is this? Pointless, I guess. Pointless but so beautiful it’s taking my breath away and I can’t believe it. Beautiful like a mother holding her dead child and an orphan praying in the darkness. This is beautiful like burns are relieving and cuts are comforting. I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight, but I don’t have to. Each new swell of tears draws my mouth open in a silent rotundness, like an oncoming orgasm, like a secret for the moon. And it’s funny how my brow furrows itself in concentration when thinking of you is so effortless. And though my mind is briefly consumed by the things I should’ve done and all the possibilities of the future, it’s incredible how overwhelmingly present the now is. And the rawness of this exact moment where I am tortured by my need for you.
Don’t think that it hasn’t crossed my mind to hop on a train; that I haven’t watched it all play out in front of me, how I’d silently get dressed and sneak out the front door, creeping up the empty streets to the nearest railway station and catching the next one straight to your bedroom window. But I don’t want to describe anything right now. I just want to get lost in the want and consumed by the mess. The worst part is thinking about how you could be here, and feeling like you are. No, the worst part is wondering what this is. Is this love? Don’t think I haven’t thought of going to sleep. I just know I can’t. And why would I lay in the comfort of my bed when I could be sat here by computer light listening to sad songs and letting snot drip onto the pages while I scribble incomprehensively, and cry sporadically over...split milk? Is that what this is?
You’re such goodness. I don’t know how else to say it. Sleep feels so cold without you, my hands feel empty, my mind wanders, and I am always reaching for you. You, you, you. Is this love? Just write me a love song, send me music, tell me you can’t sleep either, I don’t know. I want you here on the floor, under this blanket, rubbing my back while I agonize over how that’s precisely where you're not. You’re such a light heaviness, and the way you sting is pure like smelted iron, because you don’t mean to. You don’t mean to but you do and you make me make me wonder and that’s dangerous. But I don’t even know if that much is true because I can’t imagine doing much of anything in this state.
I want to rip my heart out and stick it in a box and mail it away, but I don’t even know who I’d send it to. I don’t know if I don’t want to end up with you because I don’t want to end up with anyone or what. Maybe I just don’t want to “end up,” period. What I want is to lay in a messy bed all day under silk sheets and a flood of satin pillows, wearing a pink robe with mascara running down my face, eating boxed chocolate and adorning the room in used tissue and listening to ballads from the 1960s while I wait to die of heartbreak. I just want you here, and for someone to come and take my blood and tell me what this is. Is this love?
