I never really tell anyone how much they mean to me because I’m always scared that saying things out loud makes them permanent, concrete, forever; and everyone’s kind of scared of forever. But lying here alone in my bed at 12:15 am in your shirt with the ceiling fan on for white noise I realize that I miss you entirely. I have a knot in my back and too many split ends and I’m thinking about quitting smoking and there’s nothing more I want right now than you here with me, and I think that’s such a beautiful thing.
It was almost 10pm when you called me and asked me to come over. I was asleep but I came anyway. We sat on the couch in your basement and watched TV in the dark. I liked the way you laid your head on my lap like you’ve been doing it your whole life. You fell asleep there, just like that, I could feel how comfortable you were by the way your chest rose and fell so steadily - I wonder what you were dreaming about.
So maybe I love the way your breath smells like oatmeal and the way your skin always smells like soap. You gave me one of your sweatshirts and I slept it in for a whole week. I got mad when it accidentally got thrown into the dirty clothes pile and got washed. It doesn’t smell like you anymore.
I sat down in the shower today and watched as you washed off of me. I am lying on my stomach in my bed right now and you’re in some airport in New York City and I smell like myself again. You just texted me, “No wonder you want to live in Chicago, the city is perfect.” I can’t remember telling you that I ever wanted to live there. I think you just knew.
I want you to come home. I want you to sleep in my bed and when I miss you I want to be able to smell the pillow you slept on and close my eyes and breathe you in because that always makes missing you easier. I want it to be last night and I never want to go to bed without you again.
So maybe I like to sleep all day because that’s when I am most content - the blinds half drawn so there is never too much sunlight or darkness at once, the heavy purple comforter that never stops smelling like fresh laundry, smooth legs steady breathing and the white noise of a ceiling fan somewhere in the background
But my favorite part are the dreams /
I think that’s why I fell so hard. You were the dreams, exactly like them - beautiful, real, pure, honest, and always from my heart. Waking up from them was like getting everything you’ve ever wanted and having it ripped out from underneath your feet (you know it’s coming but it still makes your heart hurt)
Maybe that’s why I always wake up with a bitter taste in my mouth. I knew what I was getting myself into with you, I knew it was coming, nothing lasts forever, not dreams and especially not you - but I can’t stop picturing the back of your head walking out of my front door (it felt like you ripped my whole heart out that day) you were looking straight ahead like you’ve never been so sure of something in your life
No matter how much I brush my teeth, I can still taste you on my tongue
I am lying in my bed on top of all my covers, the fan is keeping me calm, I miss when all of my lightbulbs blew out except for one so it always felt like night time in here.
I don’t know how to put these feelings into words. I am tired, exhausted, drained, burned out. People come and go and how can you really ever be sure of anything? I realized today in the fitting room of a stupid store that I am quite alone. I know it’s always been this way, but the realization still stung.
I stopped answering the phone a long time ago. I stopped trying to connect with people - I was always out of breath trying to string words along in sentences that weren’t mine and I never knew how to make them see how I saw. I don’t think that’s possible. There is a pain in my throat that won’t go away no matter how hard I swallow.
I became fed up with the idea of trying. I wake up every morning to do the things I hate, all over again, without question. I keep reminding myself “only two more months and you’re free”, but I will always be stuck inside my own head.
I want a good night’s sleep. I want a meal with my family that doesn’t end in me wishing I never came. I want to stop driving so recklessly. I want to stop thinking I am invincible. I want a boy’s head between my legs. I want more hours in the day. I want to smoke every cigarette I can get my hands on. I want to be constantly drunk. I want to stop feeling stupid because I don’t get it. I want to stop feeling second best to everyone. I want to stay home for a week straight and never come up from underneath my covers. I want to get in my car and leave this house and not come back for a week and breathe.
I want to wake up one morning and not be tired anymore.
I was born to be here, in this bed with you, your hand resting on my thigh, like we were made that way. The gesture was so natural, your fingertips writing stories into my skin - you knew I wasn’t much of a reader, but I swear my skin was sewn together with your words.
One morning afterwards while we were just lying there, naked and out of breath, you turned to me and propped yourself up on your elbow, licking your lips with that same hungry expression on your face that you always got when the world came together in your head. “I think if you cut us open we would bleed passion.” - You kind of half-whispered it, to me and yourself, like you were trying to convince the both of us.
I still remember the way you searched my eyes for some kind of response like the only thing that mattered was that I thought the same; but I was too busy thinking of what color passion would be - I always told you that our passion was in our blood; it was inside of us, swimming around in our veins, back to our heart, down to our toes, everywhere. It had no color, but you knew it was there. It was too heavy for that.
Yesterday I cut my leg shaving and didn’t notice until I looked down and saw the pink tinted water snaking a tiny stream down into the drain. I found the cut, sat, and watched it bleed - but no matter what I did, it wouldn’t stop. I think those were your words leaking out of my skin.
To this day, I still think of your words whenever I see my blood.
I wish you hadn’t written all of those books into my skin.
I am here, now, at this very moment, because it is raining outside of my bedroom window and because I can’t shake this feeling. I am lying here in the dark, tonight is no different than any other night, but it is - to explain it would be something like trying to put a feeling into words (impossible). I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. Nostalgia on the tip of my tongue and it tastes like shit.
I made you a mixed CD the other day. I wrote, “I think about kissing you a lot” in big black letters in permanent marker on it - but that was my mistake, I tried to make something permanent out of something very temporary, and we both knew that, but we did all of this anyway. I listened to it three times through, drove by the river and had that strange and familiar urge to drive into it again, but I didn’t feel like ruining my car.
I broke that CD that same night; cracked it right in half, straight down the middle, a perfect split.
I don’t think about kissing you at all anymore.