I like to think about us a lot.
The way you held me the morning after; how you forgot the night before.
I like to pretend that I’m OK–that I’m better now; that what you were was a burn that scabbed and bled but eventually healed.
I can feel the slow palpitations in my heart when someone says a name that sounds like yours.
They remind me of the ones that once echoed into your chest. The ones you used to touch when they surfaced through each of my ribs. The ones that you cultivated in your hands; with your lips–the ones you bred from inside of everything I had once though was mine.
The ones that still belong to you.
So I wonder now: the parts of me that you took; the me that didn’t return.
I’ve been different. Less lovely, less impressive–less in love. More eager, more helpless, more obsessive–more lost.
I remember San Francisco. I remember New York; LA, Miami, but how it’s Toronto, still, that has the you I can’t forget and the me that I could never find.
If I had done nothing wrong, how could we never be right? Which part of me should be thrown away? Which part of me made everything of me worth forgetting?
I want to tell you there’s been nobody after you. Nobody that mattered. Nobody that felt significant. Nobody that reminds me of the 5am through your eyes. The 6am through your lakeside balcony.
The 7am me in your mouth.
Nobody that feels like you at night
and smells of me in the morning.
Lately all I can see is your face; your name–I can hear your laugh, and everything I do is an echo of something we once did.
I miss you because I didn’t when you were alive, and I regret that more than anything because now I look around and there’s this feeling in my heart; a melancholy of my mind that I remember only you could understand. This pretentious, childish ennui of my soul that doesn’t belong but exists. Something that I can’t admit to anyone else because I know it’s undeserving; that we were born too lucky to be sad on our believed misfortunes.
It’s hard for me to write about you. To remember the way you looked at me; to remember the words you wrote to me. To remember how it was all of these that will no longer exist. To remember how it’s all of these that you no longer want.
It’s hard for me to find the right combination of words to describe you. To describe me, when I was with you. My English teacher told me it’s because I have to wait for the blood to dry before the ink will take.
Otherwise it’s messy, emotional. Unfocused. Like us, that night.
Like me: after you.
When I was young, my mother taught me that she was better on tequila. Now that I’m a little older, I’ve discovered I run on wine.
I used to like to do everything with an equal level of mediocrity, to make sure that everything I did had breathed a level of inadequacy. Because you are born being told what you are, and raised to believe it is all you are. What they don’t tell you is that it’s no longer about what you are.
It’s about what you become.
How is it like being a hot grill on the internet? People say you are pretty and stuff all the time
I’ve been on the internet since I was four. After awhile, you realize the opinions and facades of humanity you see online are all just runners in a very special Olympics. None of it actually matters. In the real world, I’m just an average asian girl and learning to be OK with that (my mom just kind of isn’t).
So I have a crush on a supervisor at work, but she has a boyfriend who also works at the same place. Is it worth it to try and pursue her despite her having a man or should I forget about her?
People hold a very high value to being able to make their own decisions. If you like someone, and respect them as a human being, you should also respect the decisions they make independently of you. She chose to be in a relationship, and who to be in a relationship with.
I think the more important question, really, is why you have no respect for people and their relationships.
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.