love letter #18

I took a bus for the first time by myself
and by myself I mean with a friend that I made a week ago
and I saved the ticket stub. Pressed it between pages behind other pages behind other pages behind other pages behind other pages at the back of the cupboard
except that doesn’t make sense so I just stuck it on the front page of a notebook I keep by the bed.

I took a bus for the first time by myself
and by myself, I mean with a friend I made a week ago and realised I’ve never felt so lonely.
Which is a strange background score to the sound of my friend’s laugh and the echoes of my own.

I miss you
are words I’ve never felt. Not like this, not this…what? Something that whips around my head slow and heavy until I have no words except
the constant litany of I’m happy I’m happy I’m happy I’m happy
which I am
because I took a bus for the first time by myself
with a friend I made a week ago and shared ice cream with

Ice cream that tasted like the future and I swear I was so happy I skipped my way back to class.
I’d never known the taste of missing you.

(it tastes like the glass of water I had at 4 am today)

sounds like every call to prayer I grew up hearing.

Feels a little like heartbreak.

Feels a lot like telling myself the hurricane’s really a zephyr,
like the string lights I don’t put up that have found their way around my lungs, tighter and tighter until all I have is copper bittersweet flowing into them and words can only help if you speak them, I once heard

And what I would give to have the words but all I can offer is the zephyr I’ve wound around copper wires,
and memories of stolen mornings I woke up early just to be able to lie in bed in. Trace the sunrise as it moved across my wall

I did that the day I took the bus for the first time by myself. It doesn’t feel the same, it feels a little like heartbreak.
but

I am happy
and I miss you.

animation3
in which I am homesick and tried to animate for the first time.
Advertisements

Loving Like not

 

The Earth didn’t lock into place
upon our arrival;
still and fragile,
hushed in anticipation
of a prophecy writ in molten stone
and stamped into our mortal hearts.

the songs I hum of you and me
are not echoed back to me,
a technicolour monstrosity
in a sea of past forgotten technicolour monstrosities.

so the idea of destiny
in a universe that tends to entropy,
thirsting for chaos,
clamours of a grand design,
of twin lights, of meant-to-be
seem laughably naive.

I was not drawn to you because I was a moth
and you the flame,
because I was Icarus and you knew the way,
or because both our wings were the same dull grey.
Your touch doesn’t echo through me for all eternity,
not when I’m made brand new every few years
(months, weeks, days even)

My heart does not beat away from me,
cradled in careful hands, warm and not my own–
–my heart doesn’t do much of anything, really.
Except ache sometimes when it’s cold and I didn’t know.

I could fall in love with anything
many things,
(even you, sometimes I think.)
There are chemicals that do it for me.

But we can still laugh under a sun that doesn’t shine for us,
dance to beats out of sync with those of our hearts,
paint in colours that’ll fade on paper scraps superfluous.
How lucky to not have anything expected of us,
to still love in a world that will not remember.

All the time we could ever know
ever need
all to ourselves.
Without the weight of the cosmos
on closed eyelids we trace with our lips.

 

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

p.s kinda choppy but it was written in disjointed parts over several days so pls excuse.