I keep rereading all of my old drafts, wondering when it was that I was happiest or saddest, when it was that I actually felt something.
I can’t write like I used to, because my thoughts are preoccupied repeating the last moments of you there.
The problem with art and writing is that it’s born from a level of intelligence, but it’s all colored by emotion. By feeling: by the way you make me tremble at two in the morning, by the way you make me break at two in the afternoon.
It’s been weeks, and I know I can make it seconds if I picked up the phone. If I can do you from more than memory alone.
It’s not about what I’m trying to make it about. It’s not about the fucking–it’s not about the ridiculous, mental blueprint you have to every inch of my body. It’s about the you that exists in hundreds of pictures in my camera roll. The you that will never know how much of our memory I fought to keep.
The bacon you made for breakfast, the red tan of your skin. The blues of your eyes; the way every thought of you makes me trade my virtues for sins.
I wonder if you’ll ever know what you do to me: how the writhing in my heart matches the writhing in your sheets. I wonder if I’ll ever realize how much of me you’ve done–the parts of me that beg to never be the same. I turned twenty one in your bed, and cold in your arms.
The dozens of pink roses, the brunch by the beach. The way your words told me I was beautiful; the way your mouth proved it.
I know that the point of us was the fatality. The way we were safe from ourselves because we made sure it would never work out: you’re everything I eventually want, and I’m everything you would’ve wanted. I know now; how the world ends in fire, but still in ice.
It’s how your cologne is like your arms, and your fastidiousness your obsession. It’s how I am water and stuck in the snow. It’s how I close my eyes when you open yours; trace your veins when you’re intertwined into mine. It’s how you’re the rhythm, but I only know the blues.
It’s how you’re bad for me, and all of me won’t let me let it go.
This was the safeguard: the logistics, the reality. How it’s not supposed to work–how I kissed you thinking it was the last, but every time won’t stop being the first.
You are my reality, and tonight, I promise to forget the logistics.