As I type, your hair is sprawled spaghetti over a pink plush pillow. It is messy. It is tangled in an unkempt slew of knots. It hasn’t been washed in three days.
It is perfect.
The first time we met, I could’ve sworn it was sunny – even though I know very well it was cloudy. The day began like any other. I awoke. I looked outside. Harrumphed something about pathetic fallacy. Wondered where my life was going, and more pathetically, why I didn’t know the answer.
Who knew that my answer would be wherever you are?
As I type, your breath whistles in the room unevenly, churning to the prison of your ribs. I want to say something, to grab your attention, to see you look at me again if only for a little while, but what could I say after we have read the blindness of our thoughts and the Braille of our goose bumps? What voice could be so important to break the sound barrier of your ear like a robbery? What word could I ever construct to do you justice when right now; I wish it were just us?
Hi, what’s your name? were the first words I chose to say. Hearing them now, they sound like a lie for they are not how I felt at that exact moment. I could’ve said anything, could’ve sung till my vocal chords shriveled into a crumbled mess of dehydration, or danced around like a fool who had just won the lottery of love, but instead, I settled for pleasantries, mediocrity, the norm.
I am sorry.
As I type, I have nothing more to offer you. I can joke. You can laugh. I can hold your hand. You can hold mine back. But nothing I do will be new. Nothing will be original. From here on out, I will be copying others. Their actions. Their words. Their everything. But I’ve always wondered how someone could describe beauty without looking into your eyes? How they could understand what melting is without kissing you? How they could fall in love without hearing your heart beat?
Maybe, though, the scholars, poets, artists; were all just foreshadowing you.
The first time we planned to meet, we bargained, dealt under the table, sold, bought, and traded. You asked for the material; I, the opposite. Maybe that’s why you agreed for a moment of your time to be spent with me – a nobody, a stranger, a name and nothing more – out of pity. But not once did you show unhappiness. Nor did you label me. You looked at me, with eyes that knew where I had been, who I was, what others thought of me, and said, “Tell me about yourself.”
Shakespeare couldn’t write a sentence better.
As I type, I won’t call this love. It’s not because I am afraid of using the word nor because I don’t know what the word means, but rather because everyone else does. They use it freely. They use it to describe everyone they meet, and you are not everyone.
To me, you are everything.
On our first date, you told me you didn’t mind vegetables, and I told you I’m a vegetarian, so you didn’t mind me. You laughed, said I was corny. Maybe that is true, but right then and there, I decided you would be my heart’s fiber, strengthening each beat until the only thing I could shit was cupid’s arrow. And while a comment like that may be frowned upon – disgusting even – it doesn’t stop it from being true.
Sometimes, I just have to be dirty when describing the things you do to me.
As I type, your mouth gapes open sweetly. It’s a near broken smile, a door not yet closed. Your teeth are poking out, crying to be seen. Those pearly whites must be what the Pearly Gates look like because every time you smile, I understand why Jesus allowed himself to be crucified. It wasn’t for redemption; it was an attempt to see the heaven in your eyes.
But know that if I ever die, unlike Jesus, I’ll come back on the on the 23rd hour because I don’t want to spend a day without you.
And know that after the first moment I met you, I was going to type this.