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.

 

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XOXO, Gossip Girl

love u

Well I don’t know if you’ll believe me when I say this– or believe me and then think me a delirious fool–but I, well I believe in…(coughs)–in…(spits out hairball)–in…(summons a demon) in… love.

I know, I know it’s not really an opinion worthy of being declared in this dramatic manner as if it were the answer to life itself, but I realized that I’ve never actually said that out loud. And even though it’s a normal little unremarkable thing saying it even now seems…weird.

I guess I’ve just never talked about it. And doing so now seems lame and awkward and paints me a cliché and I just don’t talk about it okay!

Don’t get me wrong, I still think love is a Neurochemical Response (yeah, but…like…capitalized), and I know some might use that as a reason to brush it off as fantasy, but honestly, isn’t everything basically a neurochemical response? Happiness, sorrow, fear, anger–everything is inside our head! Technically, they all could be called a result of our imagination–but does that necessarily make them fictional? Are the blues and the greens and the purples, the stench of onions and garlic, the pitter-patter of the rain, the blaring of horns all unreal? Colours, smells, sounds–we see them the way our brain responds to them. It’s all electrical impulses and reflected waves.

Continue reading “XOXO, Gossip Girl”

I Swear I Am

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It was purely by chance.

It’s how all these stories start, don’t they? By chance?

I’d like to say that I had always known. That I’d always seen the hollow space inside him and knew I didn’t fit in there or come anywhere even close to it. I want to say I saw this coming and was prepared.

I didn’t. And I wasn’t.

Every time he looked over or held my hand, I believed it. All of it in all its sappy, sickening glory; the flowers, the candles, the late night pizza, the seemingly random declarations of affection; the fears and the doubts and the vulnerabilities. I was fiercely in love and believed him to be the same.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How I always claim to be so over the big dramatic speeches and sentimental inner monologues? It’s funny—

I’m laughing.

It was by chance. An old photograph fell out—like old photographs are wont to do—out of his jacket…or wallet? The finer points of that evening escape me.

I picked it up. And in the laugh lines I saw who he used to be. In the soft hair falling gently past her shoulders I saw the things he thought he would be and the unfailing optimism he held at twenty one. In the curve of her jaw I saw what he never thought he’d lose. I know what you’re thinking, it was a photograph of a girl, he was nowhere in the picture. But I know him.

I felt like I was intruding somehow; snooping into the life of this strange girl whose private moment lay forever captured in ink, the evidence of her radiant laugh cherished and loved and safe guarded…in my house.

And yet I was the intruder because that girl in that moment had revealed far too much of herself and it wasn’t meant to be etched into eternity in the form of glossy paper. I was trespassing and I quickly put it down on the bed, blank side facing up.

I looked up at him then. He looked sorry, he truly did. He took a step forward, his mouth opening ever so slightly, knowing he had to say something but clueless as to exactly what–and there, right there, the tiniest hint of relief.

And with that he fell to the floor, dead.

Or he would have, if it was possible for someone to die instantaneously of the force by which all my hatred poured out–silent and confused–but raging. Hatred made all the more destructive despite its quiet nature, pure hatred born of love.

I was fiercely in love and believed him to be the same. With me.

It’s funny, I’m laughing, do you see?

Haha.

Yours Truly,

sign-off

Promise and True

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When he spoke, words didn’t matter. It was a flick of a wrist, or a waggle of a finger or an eyebrow lifting. His language wasn’t English, it was True. He spoke true. It was beautiful and I fell in love.

I fell in love with that head tilt and that knuckle crack. I believed him when he told me of adventures far-fetched and impossible. I nodded, mesmerized, as he recounted brushing his teeth. It didn’t matter that when we met I hardly talked; all I cared about was hearing True and hearing it from him. I told no one of my love; was constantly paranoid that somebody would see it and tell him and he won’t talk to me anymore; afraid that they would see it in my eyes, or my smile or my clasped hands. My hands were always clasped when we—he—talked.

He had this way of just…including you. Including you in his joy, his anxieties, his dreams… He would laugh that warm laughter of his and his head would fall back ever so slightly and you could see this scar he had at the base of his jaw. Cycling accident, he told me. And when he was stressed, his eyes would flit from one thing to the next, landing at you for a second or two, begging you—beseeching you—to put an end to his troubles, before moving on again.  And when it was clear that you could do nothing to help, the corners of his mouth would mould into this heart breaking  smile and his fingers would graze against your arm, forgiving you, telling you it’s okay, but at the same time making you feel all the more guilty for your helplessness. I loved him with all my heart and soul. So much so that I refused to trivialize it with mindless doodles of our initials or making up scenarios about the two of us; I was truly, blissfully in love.

I was 12 when I first met him. I’ve known him for 4 years, 5 months and 11 days. I’ve been in love with him for 4 years, 5 months and 10 and half days. I haven’t told him yet. But I think he knows.

It was agony, watching him with other girls. Watching him speak true and see them clasp their hands. Not the way I did—but pretty close. I hated him in those moments with every fibre of my being. Hated him for being so damn sincere. But then I would see him crack a knuckle or tilt his head and would go immediately from being unhappily in love to simply in love.

When we were twelve and he felt like nothing was ever going to work out, he would come up beside me and intertwine my pinkie with his. Like we were making a promise. Like I was making a promise. And I used to pray with all my heart that I would keep it.

Now that we’re all “grown-up” pinky promises seem silly.

But even then, when he sidles up beside me and takes my pinkie, I still pray with all my heart.