warning: disjointed, pseudomodernist (excess of the pseudo) language, written while on medication.
random credit: mark z. danielewski and his little sister; hannah jones for the last line of the letter
"these foolish things (remind me of you)"
you want to say something. you're being selfish. it's not fair, it's not fair that he can say these things, and you don't say anything. so maybe you are selfish. you're never going to understand, not like this.
and he touches your face, just to make you look at him, and you do.
conversations run in echo whispers in your mind when you try to sleep, turn over again, bury your eyes, lullaby and goodnight. lay your sleeping head.
just listen to me for once
i always listen to you
you're looking at me differently
you never look the same
just shut up! shut up!
i thought maybe you had grown up, but i suppose i was wrong
you're never wrong, that's the problem
or maybe it's that you never think you're right
i don't know
you never will
one time, you walked out. you just walked away, and it was the best feeling in the world. it was breathing after surfacing from water, it was running until you couldn't breathe anymore.
he sends you a letter, and it is filled with words that you know, in a pen that he borrowed from you sometime last year and never gave back.
sometimes i try to think of what might happen if you left me, forever, and i can't imagine it. sometimes i miss you so much, it's like you're already gone. i know in the end you forgive me for everything, and i don't deserve that.
it isn't so much that i am less when you are gone, but that i am more when you are here.
he's right again, but you'd never tell him.
you always forgive him.
do you remember back at school when i always tried but you always tried harder? i think, now, it's because you care more, no matter what. it just comes easier.
people understand you.
then why don't you?
what? i can't hear you.
why don't you? why don't you?
you aren't making any sense.
of course not.
you are young
you are both so young, and it isn't right that you can't speak to each other without paraphrasing, skipping, stumbling over words that you practice over and over again underneath your sheets at night.
a nervous, incessant lullaby.
i love you.
that isn't fair.
i knew someone once who looked exactly like you. they loved me, or, at least, i thought so.
i need you.
is that the same thing?
you smile when he kisses you, because you know it is real. it is something soft and desperate and past all the words he could ever say. quietly, you kiss and touch and whisper nonsense words into his mouth, love, need, miss, please, please.
later, you curl up around him and he says something, deep in his throat.
i love you.
you close your eyes.
when you open them, he is still there, and your smile tastes like him.
i love you, too.
and you think that, maybe, you really do.
he never looks at anyone else, but he always looks at you. sometimes you like it, but sometimes its too hard to understand, and you want to ask why, but you never do.
he hurts you, but he always makes it up.
he falls asleep on your shoulder one night, mouth open, wet on your collarbone, pressing your shirt into the flap of tight skin. he falls asleep, and you watch him.
you love me.
that's what you whisper. once more, again. right there.
you love me.
he smiles in his sleep.