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.
I used to wonder if I was good in bed. I used to wonder how to be good in bed.
It’s obsessive. The way they show fucking in movies: excessive, in twenty-second bursts and flashes of skin. The way they show fucking in pornography: rapid, in long minutes and forgettable looks, personalities, noises.
It’s weird: fucking, in real life. It’s this dance that both of you don’t understand because it didn’t exist before either of you came together. It’s not a waltz, a tango, or some oddly distinctive, gritty club dancing. It’s your body meeting another, making something that has never been before.
What they don’t tell you is that all of it is right–slow and quick and the speeds inbetween.
I used to wonder what I would have to fuck like to keep you. What the girls before me had to do wrong to lose you; what the girls after me will have to do right to keep you.
It’s funny how synapses work–the way our mind draws connections to memories; how the olfactory triggers the me even my mind cannot remember, the way the back of my tongue has become a gustatory repository for everything that once tasted of you and everything tasted with you.
10. 24. 305. My mind doesn’t understand numbers. It doesn’t create the relations that most people make. I can no longer recite timetables, carry things properly in my mind or subtract as quickly as everyone else. I can’t visualize the ones, the twos or the threes or the fours. And that’s always been where I overcompensated–why my words are my counting, why my entirety is only a literary compilation. Why I can recite the theorems, but cannot reconstruct the formulas.
I could write you about all the things I like about sex–reiterate erotica I slipped my hands under the covers with when I was twelve on thirteen; recall all the men I once had only in mind, and then the men I once had eventually inbetween sheets.
I could paint pictures of positions and types–match fabric swatches to the silk and corduroy of skin and hair; talk about how the electricity vibrates through the core of my being, paint pictures of how my emotions are magnified and my body enlightened.
I could show you how I watched my features set on fire; how my body became mine–but captivating and recited like a movie that could only be watched once, and never owned.
People tell me that fucking is vague, shallow and meaningless. People tell me that fucking is a loveless act.
People always seem to be so obsessed with beauty–with physical perfection. The Adonis and the Aphrodite; the essence to possess a kind of je ne sais quois and I wonder if this is what it is like to exist: to constantly be searching for vanity at a level that is considered human but parallels narcissism.
I will never be traditionally pretty and it’s always terrified me but I never really understood why–half in part because I never thought the meaning mattered, and half in part because I enjoyed the idealism.
But this I’ve known: in our own lives we have all defined our core with our own truths, our own guidelines. Sometimes they’re created from happiness and the moments of our life that were sheltered by euphoria and handled by epiphanies. Most of the time, they’re created from those days we can’t force ourselves alive but somehow we’re still living.