Posts tagged with "muse"

What I Mean To Say

Usually, when peo­ple ask me why it was so spe­cial, I say “When it worked, it worked real­ly well”.

What I real­ly mean to say is,

It was the way her kiss­es would trav­el down my spine. The way she wore her hair dif­fer­ent­ly every time I saw her. The way her cheeks would round so endear­ing­ly when she tru­ly laughed. The way she could look beau­ti­ful wear­ing dress­es, or jeans, or my old paja­mas. The way the tan­ta­liz­ing gold­en down trav­eled along her low­er back. The way her body felt against mine when I pulled her close.

It was because she brought me green tea bub­ble bath when I was home sick for three days with strep throat. Cause she loved try­ing new things, like taro dumplings, and ha gow and sui mai and tofu flower, and bub­ble tea. Cause she would buy me ben­gal spice tea, and hand creams, and soaps, and flow­ers for no rea­son in par­tic­u­lar.

It was because she liked tak­ing pho­tos of me too. Cause she would remem­ber the things I want­ed when men­tion­ing them in pass­ing so she could look them up and buy them for me lat­er. Cause she tru­ly appre­ci­at­ed the gifts that I gave her. Cause she spent so long prepar­ing for my birth­day last year, even though she knows I don’t cel­e­brate it. Cause she helped me seek ther­a­py for my anx­i­ety issues. Cause she came with me to con­certs when I did­n’t want to go alone. Cause she loved The Mars Volta and Shane Watt as much as I do.

It was the way she could cre­ate so many beau­ti­ful things with her hands, using paint or chalk or ton­er or lead or met­al or choco­late. The way she sup­port­ed me and my pho­tog­ra­phy. The way we would take turns choos­ing movies and watched them togeth­er, even though our tastes were so dif­fer­ent. The way she got along with my friends and loved my cat.

It was the way I would fall in love with her over and over again every day.

In her, I had found the per­son I was look­ing for my whole life, and she held me cap­tive every moment we were togeth­er.”

But I nev­er do.

The Kissing Map

There were patch­es of skin on her body that would build, and turn white, and flake.

She was always self-con­scious of those areas, to the point of tears, but I called them my kiss­ing map, as each patch would lead my lips to the next. In the dark, the spots revealed them­selves in their tex­ture, like del­i­cate wounds. How dif­fer­ent they tast­ed, how strange that skin felt against my own.

I would always kiss those spots, in hopes that my lips would con­vince her that she had noth­ing to be self-con­scious about around me. To ease, and share their bur­den.

To acknowl­edge that she was flawed, as we all are on earth, but I still loved and accept­ed her, despite it all.

Goodbye, Love

Tulip carnation bouquet

On our last day togeth­er she brought me a bou­quet of tulips and car­na­tions, and a Joe Hisaishi CD — a child­hood mem­o­ry of mine she ordered from Japan. I had men­tioned it in pass­ing on one of our walks as the only album I’ve been unable to find for down­load or pur­chase, and there it was, in my hands.

We watched Before Sunrise, and after­ward, we laid next to each oth­er on the couch, silent, unsure of what to say, because there was no com­fort to be had. Soon, I was kiss­ing the tears from her face, over and over again.

She asked what she was going to do with­out me. How long it was going to be before we saw each oth­er again. Whether a sim­ple phone call was allowed. I could say noth­ing, because I under­stood the neces­si­ty of it all.

So she said she was being reduced to an observ­er, and I grew cold and dis­tant. It was the first time I had con­sid­ered my own feel­ings, when I had felt reduced to much more than that, and she was­n’t mak­ing it any eas­i­er. With her lips on my neck and her hand through my hair, she com­fort­ed me in turn, and our pas­sion took hold of us one last time.

Before she left, I hugged her, felt her tears grow cold on my shoul­der, and kissed her once more on the cheek. Thank you, she said.

My heart has been filled with a calm sad­ness ever since. A strug­gle between the pain of being away from her, and know­ing that it’s for the best. That we would be stronger, and more sta­ble when it was all over.

In the days since, I’ve remem­bered the things I want­ed to say to her before she left my back porch, run­ning to car with­out look­ing back before the emo­tion could over­whelm her. Things that did­n’t come to my head because I was too focused on keep­ing myself togeth­er.

Don’t stop cre­at­ing. Take care of your­self. I love you.

French Toast

My intro­duc­tion to French toast with cin­na­mon and vanil­la and fresh fruit. When I was young, my mom would make French Toast, but it was plain eggs and bread.

It’s not what you’re think­ing though. The bot­tle of Crown Royal is filled with real maple syrup. Not whiskey((Coincidentally enough though, both liq­uids are Canadian icons.)).

God, it’s nice to have some­one cook for you in your own home.