He loved her. It was obvious to everyone that he did, but nobody knew how much. The waters were rough on top but the depths steadied his love. He loved her right down to the ocean floor along the untouched sands. Past the wrecked ships and sea life he loved her through every wave that crashed on shore. And just like those waves his love never stopped. It may have lessened in force or ferocity, but there was always a storm brewing nearby that would rage the intensity for her again.
Tag: love
Why not another one, hm?
I sent you a song the other day. I said I thought you’d like the guy’s voice. You said you’d add it to the list and sent one back.
I listened to it and liked it. I usually do like your suggestions, but I don’t know if I like them because I like them or do I like them because you suggested them. Have you gotten so deep inside that you’re affecting me that much, that I can’t decide whether I’m me or I’m me because of how it relates to you?
The latter would make sense. I’m sure everyone would believe it too.
You never answered whether you liked my suggestion or not. Figures. I’ve always liked you more than you’ve liked me, and I guess that’s the eternity that I’m left to wade through.
I love a girl who doesn’t love me back.
It’s not her fault though.
I’m just tired and I wish I could stop, but love’s hunger is everlasting.
I can’t let go and I’m not sure that I want to
The problem is that when we first got involved my heart reached out and became intertwined with yours. It turned its beats to sync with yours. It’s blood pumped the same as yours. It wanted to be everything you needed to be happy.
But as we grew apart, each time, it refused to go back to what it was before. It was still yours.
And so, my heart is still attached. All of the others that grabbed hold in the past, they all let go. Mine won’t. It refuses, holding on for everything new its become as if it can’t live without holding onto a part of you.
I still think about you.
On random days of what could’ve been.
And restless nights of what sort of was.
I’m still here thinking about you.
4am girl
Did you ever have that 4am someone? That person who was just yours? They felt like four in the morning when nobody else in the world was awake and the entirety of civilization belonged to the two of you.
I did once. She was magnificent.
We spent the days trading stares and notes. They weren’t love notes though, they were lust notes. A message of what I wanted to do to her and a reply with how her body would react. We were chemistry.
All responsibilities were eschewed. Our employers paid us to talk about how we would have fucked if we were in the same room. There’s no way we could have stayed employed if we had access to each other’s bodies though. I would have made her scream and she would have pulled beautiful obscenities from my lips, at least when they weren’t glued to her.
At night we pulled away from the world and lounged in purgatory. She would straddle my lap and pin me happily beneath her as her arms were lazily draped over my shoulders. The living were acknowledged, but we pushed past them to get lost in the abyss together. The clocks never worked right. Everything felt like that magical point of time where it all stopped and there was no sound aside from our lips smacking against each other.
Her tongue weakened me. My strength waned in her presence. She pulled the life from me and all I wanted was for it to never stop. I wanted to die at her touch.
We never made it to 4am, but whenever we were together she silenced the streets and quieted the crowds as if it were.
When
When you look at me after I say something stupid.
When you try to hide your smile after I make a joke.
When you brush the hair from in front of your face to behind your ear.
When your fingers flicker against my hand.
When you stand half naked in the bedroom before climbing beneath the covers.
When you whisper in my ear during a movie.
When you shimmy out of your jeans.
When you get out of the shower and your hair is dripping wet.
When you ask me to do something that you love.
When you smile all the way to your eyes.
When you can’t decide what you want to eat during a meal.
When you’re so tired you can’t stay awake and your eyes are drooping.
When you color your hair.
When you ask where I’ve been all day.
When you ask if we can stay in tonight.
When you kiss my lips softly like a pillow.
When you kiss my lips hard like a freight train.
When you make me feel like you love me.
When you make me think that I love you.
When we spend all day getting lost in each others minds.
When we just live.
Do you see me?
“This is basically like a menu for people.”
She wasn’t wrong. Dating had become a strange phenomenon. There wasn’t any spark or meet cute involved anymore. Now it was similar to the way a couple picks a sperm donor or, as Melody said, the way a person picks their food off of a menu.
“Yeah, but Mel, attraction plays a role things anyway right? I mean, come on, when you’re seeing someone from across the room, as all the songs say, you’re only noticing them because of their looks right? So, here you are. Seeing someone from across the city.”
“Not the same,” she was still a romantic.
“Of course it is,” I wasn’t.
She shook her head in response, “no it isn’t. Not even close. You can’t get that feeling from a picture of a person you’ve never known before. Someone you’ve never seen before. It’s not the same.”
“Fine, tell me why then.”
She turned towards me with her hands in front of her. They were pointing at me like arrows and she was attacking my assumption that online dating and meeting someone in the real world for the first time are the same. She was riding her horse and she was going to die on it in battle.
“So many reasons!”
“Such as?”
“Pictures lie, for starters. Its a snapshot of a person. They might be pretty but what if they have a terrible voice. What if they walk funny. What if they smell bad?”
I laughed, “so you’re reason why online dating isn’t as good is even more superficial than online dating? Wow Mel. Wow.”
“No!” She laughed and pushed me, “it’s the reality. The reality of all of your senses telling you that someone is the one. Or, potentially. You can watch the way they interact with other people. You can see the way their smile slowly creeps across their face. The sound of their laugh, a genuine laugh, when someone says something funny.”
She stopped for a second and dropped her eyes from my face and looked at her shoes.
“The way your body trembles the first time they brush up against you in the slightest way and you catch the scent of them whether its cologne or the soap they use or just their natural smell.”
She paused again and fidgeted.
“You remember those things. They mean something. They develop in your head and fester until you become obsessed with them. You make up fake conversations that you have with them about the first time you noticed them and you pretend they noticed you for the first time then too. It’s a story you create in your head because the reality is they don’t know you exist and you’re too afraid they won’t care when they find out you do.”
Melody wiped her eyes and sniffled then picked her head up and smiled at me.
“Why would you want to deprive yourself of that by meeting someone online, huh? Isn’t it grand? Doesn’t it sound wonderful?”
She tried to laugh it off and turn to the computer. She clicked through a few profiles. She found someone who looked nice. He wasn’t too attractive but he wasn’t someone who spent most of their life in dark hallways either.
“He’ll do I guess.”
“I guess?” I looked at her with my forehead making all kinds of squiggly lines.
“Yeah I don’t know. He seems nice.”
“Mel, you don’t want someone who seems nice. You want someone who seems amazing. You want-,” I stopped this time. She picked her head up and looked me in the eyes with tears floating on the brink of escape and I stopped talking just to stare at her.
You don’t always remember the moment you really noticed someone. You always knew them and who they were and you looked at them hundreds, if not thousands of time, but you never can remember the moment when you first noticed something specific about them. Like the way they smile or the motion they wave their hand in when they pull their hair behind their ear.
Right then I noticed the way she looked at me with her teary, reddened eyes and I looked back at her and my mind spoke up out of turn and asked if I had ever noticed how beautiful she was when she cried.
I shook my head. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say out loud that I hadn’t and talk to myself like a psycho, but I did notice. I saw her looking at me and staring into my eyes and she was so beautiful that I wanted to kiss her.
I didn’t though. I couldn’t. I didn’t even know what that was. Why was I looking at her like that after all of these years of knowing her? It didn’t make sense.
I shook my head and mumbled something. She turned away and we decided that online dating would have to wait. We went out for ice cream instead and sat on a bench until the sun fell and the moon splashed stars across the sky. We talked and laughed and sat in silence. It was one of the best days of that summer and I’ll never forget it. It was the day that I realized I liked her. It was the day when I truly understood what she meant about online dating. It was the day I saw how beautiful she was when she cried and when I vowed to never see her cry again.
Worse than missing you
There are plenty of bad things in the world. Horrible things that dwarf any kind of silly, minuscule problem that most people deal with on a daily basis, but sometimes that doesn’t matter. Sometimes there is only the problem in front of you and the feelings inside of you that you’re experiencing. So, right now, deep inside of me, the worst thing in the world I can think of is living the rest of my life and never knowing what it feels like to kiss your lips.
Write write rewrite
Phoning it in is kind of stupid, right?
If you’re going to write something, right it well. Of course that can’t all be done on the first try. Finished master pieces seem like they flow and you can’t help but romanticize the idea of words flowing like water from your fingertips. Perfection pouring out.
But it doesn’t work like that.
Great writers, and great writing, takes effort. It takes pain. It takes time and love and passion. It takes lust and desire. It takes everything in you spread across the page or the screen. It needs to be you. All of you and everything in you.
So when you write, and when I say you I mean me, write. Focus on what you’re doing and write. Take it out of you and write. Pull it from you and write. Make it personal. Make it real. Make it hurt. Make it feel like Sunday morning. Make it feel like the look she gives you when you say something perfect.
Don’t just get something down. Write. Write again. Rewrite it and then write some more.
A Hopeless Romantic, Stirred 