I have no control my thoughts wander off
Okay. I remember you making me laugh a lot. You’re very funny but you know that. And you liked to listen to this one song a lot whenever we would make out. It was hilarious. You’d act like it accidentally came on when you had clearly cued it. Um, I remember your family was crazy. I remember us taking the train a lot one summer. And
‘Like’ is a pompom, it’s a firework. It’s celebratory and exciting. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a 16-car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly.
and the next thing you know, you think youre in love with both of them simply because youve been raised to believe that the only polite response to the words ‘i love you’ is ‘i love you too’, and the next thing you know, you think youre in love with only one of them, because youre feeling too guilty to handle loving them both. haha
He had heard that women often love unattractive, simple people, but he did not believe it, because he judged by himself, and could only love beautiful, mysterious, and special women.
i love you you i love you like there’s no tomorrow
The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vutton luggage are not.
I was wearing a lot of jewerly. winking rings. diamond earrings. gold bangles and a beautifully crafted flat gold chain that I touched from time to time reassuring myself that it was there and that it was mine. like a young bride who couldnt believe her good fortune.
history’s smell. like old roses on a breeze. it would lurk for ever in ordinary things. in coat hangers. tomatoes. in the tar on the roads. in certain colors. in the plates at a restaurant. in the absence of words. and the emptiness in eyes.
And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any intimacy.
When I was so in love with you. My head spins and the world shifts. And there is nothing but wrinkled sheets and bare feet and the aftermath of long quiet afternoons. Only now there are cats crying. Plumbing problems. Interventions (of all sort). I’ve started losing my accent and using punctuation. Ignoring the constant longing for small letters. Things left unsaid. When I was so in love with you you were a window that I always opened and closed. Found at the ends of my fingertips. When I wanted. It’s how things go. Now you are here and there and the cat cries and eats and wants to come in and go out and we are closing all the windows up tight, on the house. I can see my breath, sometimes, in the early mornings. When you are real and I am too.