i want you
I want you on a Monday in the early morning. I want you to attempt to pull me out of bed with words of love and gentle kisses. When that doesn’t work, you’re going to yank the covers off the bed and try to shove me off the side. You’ll be laughing and I’ll feign angry and frustration, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
I want you on a Tuesday morning and you’re rushing around, trying to do five things at once. I’ll be sipping my coffee at our small table, watching you mutter to yourself the checklist for the day over and over again, stuffing things into your purse. You’ll be panicking, looking for the house keys, at which point I press them into your hand and kiss you until you’re calm again.
I want you on a Wednesday at noon at a small café that we like to go to when we have the means and the want to treat ourselves. You’ll stretch your arm across the table and take my hand in yours. I’ll roll my eyes but squeeze your hand and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. You smile at me bashfully like we’re still in the beginnings of dating but in reality we’re in it forever.
I want you on a Thursday afternoon and I bluster into our home, soaked to the bone by the surprise storm that the news hadn’t warned me about. You’ll say it did. I’ll say it didn’t. And, before we both know it, we’re fighting with each other about god knows what. You’re crying and I’m shouting and suddenly a clap of thunder will ring out. We’ll both look at each other and apologize profusely, holding each other so that we don’t fall apart.
I want you on a Friday evening and we’ve decided to have a night-in, just for the two of us. We sit in our pajamas on our ratty couch and cover ourselves with enough blankets to cover a continent. There’s a bowl of popcorn between us and we’re vying for different movies on Netflix. Eventually, the movie is forgotten all together and I’m straddling you lap as I kiss down your neck and you sigh helplessly as you run your hands down my back.
I want you on a Saturday late at night and we’re stumbling in the streets. Well, I’m stumbling and you’re trying to keep me upright. I’m giggling and I have my arm looped through yours. I’m pressing sloppy, wet kisses on the side of your face, reaching my hand across your lower abdomen. You had decided to let me drink and stay sober because all you want in this world is to be there and make sure I’m safe.
I want you on a Sunday midnight in bed, exhausted to your bones. You had a terrible day at work since you weren’t even supposed to. You’re too tired to even speak but you silently convey to me as you touch me that you love me. I whisper into the silence that I love you too and you kiss me like you are trying to promise me a lifetime together. I will always accept.
people like you, people like me
You told me you had feelings for me on a cold December night. It was said so softly, so suddenly, so beautifully that I hadn’t known what to do at first. People like you do not have feelings for people like me, I thought, but those words caught in my throat. They formed a lump there and I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came. My toes curled and my hands clenched and, for the first time in my life, I was terrified.
You told me that you would be with me on an April midnight. I could hear the smile in your voice, the soft breath with a simple ‘yes’, and I hadn’t known what to say. People like you do not want to be with people like me, I thought, but my voice was lost. You were always so full of surprises; you were always so capable of shocking me, placing me in a state of awe. I laughed nervously against my pillow and I squeezed the sheets and, for the first time in my life, I was so happy I almost cried.
I told you that I loved you on a May afternoon and you said you loved me too. Your voice cracked and you began to laugh and cry. I did too and I whispered ‘thank god’ even if I didn’t even believe in Him. But someone must’ve sent you to me because people like you don’t happen to people to me. People like you do not love people like me, I thought, but you do. You love me and I love you. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel of my car and I listened to you cry and giggle and, for the first time in my life, I knew what ecstasy felt like.
Some days, I will not be forthcoming and open. I will refuse to share and refuse to communicate and refuse to be a proactive part of us. I will shut down, become intolerable and irritable. I will make you worry about what you have done, make you question your every move. Passive aggression will be the only communication you receive.
Other days, I will kiss you and tell you that you are beautiful. I will sit and talk to you in bed for hours on end and still not be done when you are. I will want to open myself and encompass you inside of me. I will insist on making dinner and massaging your back. I will buy you roses and lilies and daises and lilacs and carnations with words of love written on a note.
And on rare days I will cry and startle you. I will refuse to let you go, refuse to let you leave, even if you truly must. I will sob and tell you how I worry that we are not working, that our life is not right, that you do not love me at all. I will ask again and again and again and again if you love me because I will not believe you, even if you say millions, billions, trillions of times.
But every day of my life, I will love you, even on some days, other days, and rare days.
I have never wanted
a house in the ‘burbs
and a child with my hair
and someone else’s eyes.
I have never wanted
to wear someone else’s
ring on my finger
and for someone to wear mine.
I have never wanted
to kiss in the rain
and not care
about how ridiculous it is
Until I found
i wish i were not a writer
Sometimes I wish I were not a writer.
If I were an artist, I could illustrate your hands, the slope of your neck, your long eyelashes. I could capture moments; I could preserve them into something tangible, a physical manifestation of my feelings for you. Your graphite lips forever curved into a beautiful smile, sent off to dazzle the world for others to admire and fall in love as easily as I have.
If I were a musician, I could play the melody of your voice in a few simple chords or perhaps a complicated composition that can make feet dance and legs leap. It would be loud and soft and slow and fast, just like my heart whenever I am with you. The song would ring in people’s ears and settle in people’s hearts and they wouldn’t forget it as long as I would never forget you.
If I were a scientist, I would measure our love in beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks and graduated cylinders. I would create a formula to calculate the levels of chemicals in my head (dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, norepinephrine, adrenaline) and how it all connects me to you and you to me. I would conduct experiments to quantify the instances of love I feel for you and the improbability and inevitability of us.
But I am a writer. I can only write about how I feel. I can only describe about the softness of your skin and the sound of your laughter and the rush of emotions I feel around you. I can only put down words, but words are so helplessly insufficient. For you are much bigger than the words I attempt to use to enumerate the ways you are imperfectly perfect, how unflawed your flaws are, how delicately strong you are.
Words will never be good enough to fully realize you and how much I love you.
i love you in three parts
There are 1,922 miles—10,148,160 feet—12,777,920 inches separating us. For each mile, every foot, every inch we are apart, I sometimes wonder if the distance between us far outweighs the benefits of us being together. But between us, there are 119 days—171,360 minutes—10,281,600 seconds—2,056,558 breaths—12,704,000 heartbeats—infinite amounts of love, all still growing as days go by. And I know that being together will always tip the scale in our favor.
I want to feel the softness of your thighs, to hear the sighs you make when you say my name, to taste you in my mouth, to smell the sweat between us, and to see your mouth try to form words that are lost upon your tongue. And I want to know what it is to become one with another person.
It’s silly to think that a person can find someone that can complete them. It’s a lie told by fairytales in storybooks that our mothers and fathers used to read to us every night before bed. Life offers no happily ever afters. People can live out entire lives finding dozens of people with whom they feel a connection to. But I hadn’t known I was incomplete at all until I had fallen in love with you.
the reason against the dark
Nyctophobia is the severe fear of the dark. It’s most common in small children and, in varying degrees, to some adults. To an extension, the fear of the dark is also a fear of the unknown. To lose one of the body’s core senses is disorienting and, to some, hopelessly terrifying. The ability to see is a sense that most could never believe their life to be without, but is however often taken for granted. The vast unknown is one of mankind’s greatest fears.
But what lies within this vast unknown is by far the greatest of mankind.
“You know, when I signed up to be a book nerd’s agent, I didn’t think the job would include this,” pants Barry, the sleeves of his jacket pumping noisily against his body as he runs down the Main Street, a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other.
When I came home from my last school dance, I was disturbed by how quickly I could change.
I took out the bobby pins that held my hair in place one by one and unsnapped the silver barrette from my locks, set them all of them counter. I shook out my hair and the perfect curls fizzled into a tangled mess and my hair felt like it was supposed to be.
I took tissue and wet it. I wiped it across my eyelids, smearing the black and silver of my smoky eyes across the sides of my face, making me look like I was wearing a mask. I continued to clean until the eyes that I hadn’t known earlier had become my own again.
I unzipped my dress, stepped out of it, and carefully placed it on my bed. I did all of this silently, the whisper of fabric the only thing speaking. I pulled out down my girdle and exhaled deeply for the first time all night. I kicked my silver shoes to the side as they fell sideways in front of the mirror.
I pulled my nightshirt over my head and when I turned around, my beautiful dress had fallen to the ground, forgotten.
on growing up
I didn’t realize it at the time. I was sixteen, fresh-faced, and naïve (nothing much has changed, except I am seventeen), ready to take off on a plane to go to place close to 3,000 miles away from my own home, a place I had never been, where I was to leave for five days. It would’ve been the longest I’d been away from my mother.
She was reluctant to let me go. I hadn’t understood why.