I wrote these words once long ago. They date back to the beginning of time when a boy was foolish enough to believe in anything but himself, when love was a four letter word that was perched onto lips but never spoken, and when pains in his chest were the best parts of living.
I wrote these words once long ago. They date back to the end of time when my world was slowly tearing apart, when I mistook vomit for happiness, and when suicide sounded like a good idea, if only for a little while.
Looking back into a closeted wormhole of cuddles both Mrs. and Mr. Not, as clothes fall over top of nights remembered and nights forgot, I am reminded that all stories begin with poetry. So did this one – ours. It also ended that way.
As far as poetry goes, what I wrote was shit. Not because of the words that were written, but because of how true they would become. I guess in the beginning when I promised you nothing but truth, I gave it you through lies. Here is the first:
Our rose has withered, all colours now frigid, / The seed of an earthly prison livid, / While thorns remain in our unheeded garden, / Useless to the world, flowers all riven. / Sweet nectar once vibrant, forever frosted; / The roses’ ancient roots always exhausted. / Yet the soils appetite lastingly grew, / Heaven’s winds lost in the leaves, adieu. / Serpents now blossoming discord in reasons, / the Garden of Eden crawling with heathens. / Yet the rose stood still, bitter with treason, / Lifeless in love, weathering the season. / Hurricane came, and devastation reign, / And I saw the future dripping down the drain. / Did I mask my love, beauty and the best, / Truth in pain, my words a testament to this feat. / But my fur coat was no match for the rain, / No protection, even with a lion’s mane. / You thought I wanted perfection, my rose, / Beautiful but benign, brimming with woes. / Our garden, from pumpkin to carriage, / Frog to prince in proclamation of marriage. / Walking away but the clock has not struck midnight, / My eyes in a dance, sleep belongs to Snow White. / But the glass slipper fit oddly obscure. / Fairytales for dreaming, the world now secular. / All happy endings composed of yellow straws, / Our love has fallen, I was the one with flaws.
It’s killing me.
It’s 530 in the morning, and I haven’t slept all night. I keep crying when I think about not being with you.
It sounds so stupid, but I actually feel like my heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces, and the only person who can fix it is the only person that can’t.
I need you so much, you have become everything to me. I don’t know what I’m going to do now that you’re not my “boyfriend”. No one is going to ever hold me the way you did. I think that’s what I’m going to miss the most. Simply being held by you. And your smell. You left your smell in my room almost every weekend for over a year, and it still lingers. I’m just scared for when it disappears.
Life begins, ends, and revolves around it. Fleshy tissue, cardiac muscle culture, rich blood, lymphocytes, leukocytes, oxygen, carbon dioxide, and so much more passes through it. Its firm mass – unshakeable and unwavering – beating ever so melodically is a rhythm all know but few understand. Do you hear it? The beat that triumphs the silence, fights and mistakes; it transgresses my comprehension. It is a beat I cannot understand. I can listen to it but will never decipher it. It is an inexplicable code, the Morse-code of passion. It is love.
How can I use such a word that I have an inability to understand? Do I use it prematurely? Maybe. Do I misunderstand its use? Probably. Do I use it to explain the unexplainable? Yes.
And yet. Even though I am not sure what it is, it is all I have. This is because after thinking about it for a while, I have realized that you can doubt all that you hear, that the sun turns and the stars move, that you live in a world with people around you, that black means black and blue means blue. You can doubt all, but you cannot doubt that I have feelings for you.
With you I could be myself 100% of the time, and you still loved me. My stupid irrational feelings, my nagging and yelling, the weird stupid voices and sounds I made. You saw me with no make-up on in my ugly pajamas and still thought I was beautiful – even if it was a lie.
When you went away, I cried almost everyday, and reading your “one line a-day letter” actually helped. The difference is you’re only 10 minutes away now but I feel like you’re farther than you ever were this summer.
Every part of me is yelling out to tell me to just say yes to all your conditions on our relationship. If we don’t see each other for months on end, it’s ok because at the end of the day I still have you. If you don’t want to talk on the phone for weeks at a time, it’s ok because I’ll still have my you. If you want to talk to other girls because you need to make friends, it’s all ok because you’ll still be my boyfriend.
But I know that’s not right, and that’s not what’s best for you. That’s what makes this a little easier for me. Knowing that in the end us not being together is what’s better for you.
I feel that one page in writing is the best approach this time because I cannot express myself. It’s not that I lack the words – God knows I can bullshit until time itself ends. Instead it is that six months can hardly be summarized onto paper.
With each cherished second, minute, and hour, I am only going to find this task more daunting and less realistic. So, one page of attempting to capture the noncapturable will be enough – because right now, I have a girl in my bed.
And I don’t mean this is in any pejorative sense, but as a proactive joke. Staring back at you, I can see why men have written poetry, sonnets, and generally gone crazy over women. You only are sleeping, and I already feel my sanity ebbing away.
If only I could take a picture or at least have a stain of your dreams on my pillow. If only I could crawl up beside you, and say all I need to say by playing the strings of your hair.
But I could never play music. So instead I write this, “Love, is it suffice to say that alone?” because in the end, it is all I have and all I can give you. I guess – really – it is all one page of writing, and any other number of pages, is about.
Who am I going to call now? Who am I going to cuddle with? Who am I going to watch dance stupidly, yet so well to my music? I feel so lost and lonely now.
I want to shut my computer down and not send this to you because I know it’s not going to change anything. You didn’t text me or e-mail me goodnight, but I check my phone every half an hour, and turn on my computer in the middle of the night hoping to see an one beside my inbox. But there’s no text or e-mail. I’m already losing you.
I feel like I’m losing my boyfriend and my best friend at the same time.
I want to rewind time back and go home that day. I wouldn’t feel so pathetic and alone right now. I wouldn’t miss what I never had.
But then I don’t want to rewind time because if I did, I would have never met you, and meeting you was one of the best things that ever happened to me. You’ve taught me so much, and for over the past year, you’ve been my source of advice and sanity.
Please tell me what I’m going to do now? I was a girlfriend; now I’m a friend with no authority, no right to tell you that you talking to girls makes me jealous and upset, no getting mad for you not calling on time, no pleading with you to go Halloween costume shopping with me. I can’t do any of that anymore, but every part of me still instinctively feels like I want to.
I want to lay in your bed with you. I want go for a walk in the park and never come back. I want to fall asleep with you and never wake up if I get to hold you forever. I want to leave your house again in your sweater and feel special because I’m wearing my boyfriend’s sweater. I want to walk proudly around my house again, showing people who don’t care that the hood says your last name, and that’s my boyfriend. I want to have never washed your sweater so it still smells like you the first day I wore it home.
But now every time I look at your sweater it makes me cry. I want to curl up wearing your sweater and wish away all the bad things that happened over the past year. I want everyone to disappear and only you and I are left.
I never wanted to write this.
Is it dumb for me to think I can save this? With words as my superheros, I am attempting to battle my few goods against my many bads. As the battle drags on, I see that I am only sidekicking myself because if I were to look underneath my shirt, I would find out there is no cape on my back. All that I am is skin, bones, and a listless structure of a boy who has made too many mistakes.
These mistakes are superhuman in their own right. They have been numerous and each one pertains to a different evil. From ignoring you to complete disregard and respect, one can easily notice how poorly I have done as first and foremost your friend, and second most your boyfriend. Look how tired you have gotten, how stretched your patience has become.
Would it be all right if I say, “Just let me hold you again?” What about if I buy you a ring, and engrave on it, “forever mine”? Or maybe if I just whisper behind your ear secrets only you and I know?
If only I did these things earlier, though, maybe none of this would happen. The damage I have done is irreparable. I have taken everything you had to offer, and all I wish is that I could give it back. Your pride, your smile, your laugh, your heart, your love; if only that could be packaged up and returned. Now I am not regretting what you have given me, the little bit of you that I have seen. That little package has enriched my life tremendously and transformed me from a sniveling wimp to a lanky nerd. But I am regretting the fact that I had to take it from you. In a way, I feel like I robbed you of it.
However, some hero will change that. He will come and save you. I just hope he’s nice.
So, I wont say I’m sorry for all that has happened. You don’t deserve that. Saying sorry is just another way to let someone pass through like the wind. I cannot let you pass through that simply. You are not the wind. You are whirlwind, and I can never forget that.
Looking back though, it seems like I let you pass through my hands like a breeze. I guess for that I can only be sorry. If only my hands were bigger, then maybe I would have never let go of yours.
I want you to know, that when all my hurt passes, and when my tears stop shedding, you were my first. My first everything, and nothing and no one can ever change that.
I just wish you were my first and my last.