Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Hopeless Romantic.

Two days I disappear without notice and he is back on Valium. One day I will get really tired of this shit, but today is not that day.

Today he will light a cigarette and give it to me and we will puff it together and he will complain how I get the end moist. Tomorrow he will get mad at himself for poisoning me and at me for going with it. When he wakes up, he will remember how we sat on the balcony and he made me cry and I whispered he was cruel but still held on to him to help me keep it all together.

Today, between tequila shots and too much vodka, the clothes will fall off and you will forget that you are his muse, and he is yours, and that loving the idea of being in love is just good business. Making each other suffer because it releases creative hormones into your cerebral cortex, or wherever in the northern region your hormones go before they head south, and then writing out the feeling. You will love and hate and be angry and betrayed in infinite proportions, it will always be discrete and extreme and somewhere between a really good fuck, you will paint a line with your nails and replicate it and it will be art. Practicalities are for another day, as is heart break. 
Today, on the other hand, he will quote E. E. Cummings and that will be enough.

Listen, there's one hell good of a universe next door, let's go

And just like that, you will respond to his ‘let’s go’s and end up becoming too many people, causing a furore in the Louvre, hosting your own wedding in mausoleums, cooking up meals using other people’s ingredients, kissing girls and liking it.

Me - I will finally laugh, and bite back in classic twentieth century poetic fashion.

While you and I have lips and voices which
Are for kissing and to sing with
Who cares if some one-eyed son of a bitch
Invents an instrument to measure Spring with?

Yesterday, he was a shred of a man. A dreg of a man. But today is better than yesterday and it is better than tomorrow. Yesterday you fought against him, today you fight for him so that tomorrow you don’t have to fight with him. Tomorrow, he will be gone and you will hold his creased letters against your heart and weep bitterly to strangers on trains. You will go to a new city, get a new name, a new job and a new life. This city, it will reek of him, and everything that is old will have his name on it. You will write a sad poem, but there will be no pleasure in your darkness, no celebration of it, because somewhere along the way, there will come a point where your words will be for his eyes only.

But since today there’s one hell of a universe next door and one-eyed sons of bitches don’t matter, you will not ask what kind of a person manages to kill a cactus. If people on television are bold with making mistakes, there’s no reason for you to have all the guilt without any of the pleasure. Today, you will put out his cigarette and let him remember the way you smell when you sleep in his arms. Today, when he doesn’t know how to make it right, you will not make him suffer too much before you give in. And today- in this very moment, you will believe him when he says he carries your heart with him, that he carries it in his heart, and believe that he says it because he means it and that's what makes him paint like no one else ever will. 

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Let's kiss, the world's about to end.

Did you come for me?
There’s no easy answer to that.

It’s 2012, and the world is going to end, and we’re so sick of another New Year being nothing new but simply more of the old, so we try being in love for just one more night.

I button your pea-coat. You brush my hair. We hold hands over dinner though it makes eating really difficult. Your right, my left. We giggle. You artfully pick up the Kan Poong Gi with your chopsticks and feed me with all the love both of us hope we don’t have. We talk at the same time.

Sometimes, I might make you feel like I do all these drugs because of you, but I don't. I'm a weak person. I do them because I'm an addict.
Sometimes, I get ill with fevers and rib aches, but that's not your fault. I do foolish things to get that way.

Drugs: crossing Valium, Anti-depressants, Lexantol, Cough Syrups and a field of Hash. Some curse of an unborn descendent fell upon him.
Foolish things: never wearing socks and running outside every time she hears the wind too loud or the rain too soft without a coat. Some part of an ancestor’s free spirit never left her.

Do I love you? Truth: I don't know. If I don't, I don't have a reason to paint or like the music I listen to, or long or desire till I think it will kill me or read books with nonsensical titles or like perfumes or rain. But if I do, we’re both going to hell.
Truth: you don't. But life is just easier if you think you do.

For that one night, she cooked dinner. He lit no candles so they could eat to the light of the stars.

When I'm around you, I don't want to smoke up. I don't want to anything.
When I'm with you, the fact that this will never work out stops bothering me. I keep on bringing it up, because when I'm with you, I stop believing it myself.

Later, they modelled a city together: his final-year project. Fought over why there weren’t enough bridges over the river. And thus 2012 began, end of lovers, beginning of friends. By the first quarter, we’ll be lovers again because boundaries drive us over the edge – and always together. I’ve placed a hundred against it, but I’m hoping I will lose.

(This is the official 'Happy Post' for 2012. There probably won't be more of these.)