I’ve learned (the hard way) that making life choices is not rocket science. a thing is either right for you or wrong for you (you inherently know the difference). pick the thing that’s right for you. works every time.
She was the most dangerous kind of liar. The type that releases sweet words to melt on your tongue;it's fizzles into a sulphuric acid the moments it's ingested. What a coward. Villains seem to meet their downfall during long spiels but at least they had the guts to be honest.
She silently fed you the kind of termites that ate at your flesh because she was bored, but she didn't even enjoy the way they slowly destroyed. She just stared blankly. He remember the first time seeing a hint of emotion. It was the excitement that flashed in her eyes when he said no. It ignited some sort of fire in her; a challenge. He'd walk as far as he could but she'd always make her way to find him and stand close enough to breath down his neck. And he tried to find help and tried to stand in public places but it was like nobody wanted to get involved if it wasn't their business. And have you ever noticed. Only when it's a matter of opinion does anyone have the ability to suddenly speak up. No one wants to do anything when there's action involved. Things are much easier in theory.
The first requires a different understanding of many things—a place to stand, a way to see, and the abililty to comprehend events that happened in a billionth of a billionth of a second, but my first answer would be that I would like to have been there at the crack of creation. There was nothing… then… there was. What must that have been like?I realize that is perhaps not what you had in mind, but there is another very special moment that I would have liked to have been present for. This would require the voice of a narrator because I’m sure the event itself would not have been noteworthy to an observer. I can’t imagine how it happened—maybe it was a growing feeling that had been stirring for thousands of years, maybe it came in a rush, but there still must have been a moment—maybe she looked up from a campfire and gazed into the stars, maybe he stopped while chipping flakes of a stone and looked at his hand… or maybe a child stopped in the seafoam and drew in the wet sand. Regardless, there must have been a moment, an instant, when the first human (or perhaps it was something not-yet-human) looked at the world with self-awareness thought something like “I am”—and everything else followed from that moment. There must have been that point in time when we became self-aware and conscious, and there is no more important event in the story of what we are.
There is one more ... kind of like the first ... I would very much like to be at the end, when the last star blinks out and everything is finished. I know events like that far exceed our comprehension, but we can still dare to dream, right? What else are we, if not a race of dreamers?
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| Milano - Italy * Spring 2012 |
Good night my lunatic poet ❤
He taught her about how to speak pig latin before she even know how to speak the proper english when they were 8. She never understood and he never understood her and they both thought the whole thing was pointless but funny, still she wanted to fit in. He told her he liked how she stood out and the fact that she wasn't generic and that she didn't need to try and impress anyone. She was only trying to impress him and she already had but she just didn't know that. They created their own language that everyone else would want to learn but they wouldn't let them and they called it complete because their words together were all they need.
She taught him about sunset when they were 10. His parents let him spend the night at her house once and they snuck out and crawled onto the roof. She told him she went up there to think and but she wouldn't tell him when he asked her what about, because she thought it was silly and pathetic. He was hoping she the thought about him because he thought about her every night before bed, so he just looked back at her and smiled. She grabbed his hand and traced the line on his palm, telling him he was beautiful, he should be a constellation in the sky. Then she would look at the stars every night.
He taught her how to kiss when they were 13. He was experienced and had already kissed more girls than he could count with his two hand and more than she cared to know about. She had never kissed a boy because she was waiting for the right moment and the right one and didn't want to tell him that she believed he was the one worth waiting for. on the roof where she taught him about sunset for the very first time, he slid her bangs out of her eyes so he could stare into them as their lips set out on a collision course for one another. He had never realized her eyes were dark brown and not black and that she has always seen them together like this. She claims that was the day they started seeing eye-to-eye.
They taught each other how to be in love when they were 17. He thought he had been in love once but he learned that lust isn't the same as love and love doesn't lose it's meaning once you start having sex. He had his heart broken and she was there for ohm to clean up the mess that was him and taught him how to put his (her) heart back together. She was always there even though he might not have always cared. She had learned to deal with being the duct tape and the Neosporin to medicate his cuts and scrapes. She had learned to speak in run-ons and his mind left out punctuation and grammar rules and together they formed a complete sentence.
I like the way the words sound when they're moving between her lips. There is a quite rhythm in the way they buzz between the muscle and soft feather-filled flesh. I'd like to think all energy revolves this way, like a melodic hum, separating two individual keys of flesh. These notes are carnal and alive, like small flower petals that prefer to mix and mesh into pollinated lavish bloom.
I am not to lead you ashtray from my initial thought, tender reader, hopeless writer. I just ponder upon how perfect her lips kiss and the perpetual thoughts that pour over like milk and silk.
I am writing in a string of love letters tied by the end of this vacant finger fitted for bands and rings. I think I'd like to tie her on, try her on. We've got so much left to look forward to, and all our world is hanging by the end of this string.
She took a long drag off her cigarette, fighting back the cough that clawed at her throat. It was never a habit she felt truly accustomed to, but she was addicted, for a more fear-inspired reason than why most people find comfort in them. Cigarettes never changed. People changed. Relationships changed. Love, the one feeling she was so certain of one moment, changed the next. She fucking hated change. She hated the way it disrupted her pattern of life when she had only just grown used to it. Cigarettes never said goodbye. She could quit them, but they would never quit her. They were always waiting for her to use them. They would always be there, perfectly poised between her index and middle finger, the end lit like a fuse, burning and blazing passionately; the only thing that would smolder in response to her lips, to the way she breathed. They acknowledged her with a puff of smoke, curling and winding delicately around her face, caressing her cheek when no one else would. They allowed her to take and take and take and never made her feel guilty about her inability to give something in return. And this was the way she preferred things. She never had the gnawing anxiety that at any moment, she would be abandoned, tossed aside, rendered worthless and devoid of value .. all the things she knew, deep down, she deserved.
