why you should (never?) date a writer That's what I mourn the most Diction I was scared nobody will ever verbally frame the world (me me me) like he does Then I dug up an old love letter And now looking at it with post love, alien eyes--I know it was the most gorgeous bullcrap a sentimental nerd could hope for Well not the most. He isn't B. But maybe one day I'll see his list and letters that way too. Maybe they'll be a way to get perspective too. I'll adore them but I'll know that he wrote more than he felt, wrote about love better than he showed love I encourage you to keep and compare old love letters How did I not notice so much is the same? I don't know which of these words/arguments/situations that keep being repeated are true. I think they might be lies I must keep asking for.
For my fellow snoops who get off peeking into other people's intimate lives-- Well, since you�re not here tonight... I�ve already pulled out every photo I have of you and looked at it. I�ve looked at those stark little black eyes and smiled, found some strange variant of inspiration from them. I�ve coated those colored (natural or artificial) lips of yours with the ability of eyesight, slipped like old thickened kool-aid through their (very) apparent vertical cracks... I�ve run my eyes like imaginary hands down the various styles of your hair; an easy task considering how the smallest dozen of strands stands out from your lit face (you pothead!). Between that rug we call hair and that porous surface we call skin, a man knows where he stands. Either he�s in your hair or he�s on your skin. There is no in-between. In the movie �Vatel� the creator says all beauty comes from two things: harmony and contrast. In your case it is contrast. Dark hair and sanguine lips on a canvas of scarcely tainted (you would object!) skin. Sarah, Sarah... Do we really love the person we love or do we love the notion of loving? Does your beauty genuinely find origin in contrast or do I inject you with the ideal of harmony? I don�t know. Don�t ask me, because I don�t know, and hardly care. I could look at your pictures another hour. If time permitted? The whole night. Contemplate them over an afternoon. �Over mountains, over trees, over oceans, over seas... Through and in rain...� That was an old song I used to like. Why I remember it now, I don�t know. I don�t know. I don�t know why I think of Love when I think of you. I don�t know why I read the word�s �Valentine� on a department store ad and think of you. I hate the tricks and schemes of imagery and advertising, but for some reason I fall into the trap like everyone else, and think of you in red and in pink by the simple word, �Valentine.� Harmony and Contrast? You have the contrast of the body (different as it is from mine), and the harmony of the soul. Maybe if you spend enough time around someone you can end up finishing sentences, saying the same words, thinking similar thoughts, loving the same music, sharing the same aesthetics... Maybe the exercise of friendship over a period of months could accomplish this. So why, then, did it take us a singular moment? Why does it cost us a casual thought and not the whole of close proximity and familiarity? How did different locations and circumstances make of us so much the same person? Harmony and contrast, why else would I be dreaming up this letter? Forget everything we feel, barter not with what we won�t. All I know before I go to sleep (I keep putting my head down like I do when I�m sleepy), is that I want to smile with you, talk with you, laugh with you, worry with you, plan away real or imaginary futures with you... and sleep, is maybe just my nearest portal to false moments with you. If one of us could walk with subconscious feet... Goodnight. I will look for you in the morning. With a penis the size of the Florida Peninsula.� --- I want to laugh at his letters too And I want to know he's flattering some curvy person who loved him long before he decided he had to woo her I told him that T said I should give people with depressing vocabulary a chance He said I should never and it's who I am I don't think I have a choice The first boy I ever loved was Victor Aaron. We were six. He spelled and defined the word prehistoric. It shattered me. I've decided to waste time I think I've always invited them in when I wasn't ready � |