Please post more. Please. I miss you.
I wish I was writing, but sometimes it goes away for a while. Trust me, I miss it as much, if not more, than you do.
"You are a wonder. Think flowers, think the rainstorm that destroys them. You are a balance of soft and terrifying and the best part is - you know it."
A small note enclosed in a book given to me from Lenny (via 5000letters)
sometimes we’re nice to each other.
"It’s a brave thing being loved by me, but then it’s a brave thing being loved at all. Where do we find the nerve? We say ‘all right, I like you, so I put my happiness in your hands.’ We say ‘your smile tickles me so let’s spend forever going to bed mad at one another.’"
She says it’s a brave thing, being loved by you. I don’t ask why. I kiss her on her head for her courage. I gold-star her abdomen with my mouth. I leave one hand inside her. Some days, she gets solemn. Some days, she turns the radio off in the kitchen just as I’m getting into a rhythm making omelettes. Some days, she opens and closes the fridge in an attempt to discover where the light goes. She’s right. It’s a brave thing being loved by me, but then it’s a brave thing being loved at all. Where do we find the nerve? We say all right, I like you, so I put my happiness in your hands. We say your smile tickles me so let’s spend forever going to bed mad at one another. Okay, so it isn’t always like that. Some people know better. Some people. But not you and I. You and I both keep drunk-driving into new relationships. Keep licking the envelope of someone’s mouth. Keep filling the void in our ribcage with whatever we can find. You and I weren’t born smart. We were born screaming. I know, I know – aren’t we all? Well, sure, but for most of us, it’s audible. Anyway, back to what’s important:
Sorry, I lost my train of thought. I plumed the depths and came up with nothing. Maybe your thighs. Maybe I want to get lost between them. But it isn’t all sexual, I promise. Some of it is, but most of it is just – I want to be close to you. Forget waking up next to you. I want to wake up inside you. I’ll kiss you morning breath and all. I’ll start every day ironing the tension out of your body. Doesn’t that sound nice? How domestic. And I’ve never been that kind of woman. Man. I don’t know really. I’ve never been that person, wanting only to serve another, but god, I want to bring you breakfast in bed. God, I want to bring you to orgasm. It’s all the same to me.
Yes, there are times I’m going to hurt you with silence. Yes, there are times I’m going to hurt you with words. I know what you mean. It’s a brave thing, being loved by me.
But it’s an honour, that you think I’m worth the risk.
You are glory.
Rinse and repeat.
The light is brought down
to you in a picnic basket.
A crown of marigolds for your head.
The king’s men blow raspberries
into the mouthpieces of their trumpets
and like this, you are venerated.
Like this, I kiss the inside of your ear.
The story is always told this way,
your story – there are always
wild geese, there is always clapping,
always the people crying happy tears
that you exist against all fairness.
I know because I wrote it.
For your bad days.
For the nights you fence me
with your silence and win.
I wrote the story because you need it,
because it might help, because
I like the sound of my own voice too.
And I read it to you before bedtime,
on those nights we mentioned,
when you snap shut like a Venus fly trap.
I read you the story. I bring you the light.
Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
I spent today remembering a girl of my past. How we spent a summer cursing the heat without ever taking responsibility for it. The cat dubbed Pickle we let sleep in bed with us. The very first time my body softened under her hands. How I came to learn I am made of butter. Her father’s barbecued meat in the fridge for days, me licking my fingers. Me licking my fingers. Me licking. The pretentiousness of our youth, reading Neruda in original Spanish on long car journeys through the brown-washed town. The birthday dinner: Italian bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My hibiscus dress. The slow dance of my hips before we left the house. Greeting orgasm upright, bucking against the give of her hand. The night of anger. The slow bleed and the rubbing alcohol. Playing like children in the lake. Diving for her lost glasses. Diving for pearls in other wet places. The cigarettes. The hookah café. The fire alarm that dropped her heart off the tallest height. All the unsaid things. The book of letters. Scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. One grainy photograph after another of my golden body. Contorted for her pleasure. Anaís Nin: the foreshadowing that we’d move on in time. To other lovers. Other lives. Other heartaches. But again, me licking my fingers. Her licking hers. The prolonged entry. It was good. Better. It was my romance. It was my summer of love with all the fixings. It is the montage of my eighteenth year played to a song that closes the throat.
I am eternally grateful for it. For her. For the wild love that the books told me existed, but which she alone proved. I am grateful that we survived each other, and continue to, however hard it gets. And I am grateful that we can talk still and beyond the love, beyond the tenderness, there is an even greater sense of pride. I am proud that she lives, that she keeps living, that she loved me and I loved her and it hasn’t destroyed us. That she is doing well, that I am too, and that we both are glad to hear it.