Posts tagged with "love"

There Is No Such Thing As Love

Let me give it to you straight, straight like an arrow.

I’ve had these words stuck in my head for some time now. Lyrics from the tit­u­lar Dears track I first heard in uni­ver­si­ty, back when I would go home in the sum­mer and watch The Wedge on Friday nights.

I know that’s awful­ly cyn­i­cal to say, but I need proof that it is pos­si­ble today.

I just wish I could accept that fact. I’m start­ing to won­der if that’s why I keep hear­ing the words in my head. It’s my sub­con­scious remind­ing me, keep­ing me ground­ed.

Maybe that’s why we watch these movies. Hollywood would have us believe that love exists.

It’s the same sto­ry, where guy sees girl, falls in love, and hap­pi­ly ever after. In between, there’s always the overused plot ele­ment of the guy win­ning over the girl by reveal­ing him­self and his feel­ings. After all, this alone is enough to win any girl over, regard­less of whether she found him attrac­tive or not, she was mar­ried or sin­gle, or he was the nerd and she was the cheer­leader.

But love does­n’t exist in real life, as much as I want to believe that it does.

Not for me, any­way.

Missing Her Moments

I’m writ­ing this in my head
some­where between Belleville and Oshawa
as Leonard Cohen croons to me
on the stereo about miss­ing some­thing.

I’m try­ing to put this
togeth­er in verse;
it’s the only way that makes sense.
Maybe because the songs he sings are too good,
or I’m still affect­ed by the last time I had
strep throat and we read
Susan Musgrave poems in bed.

So much for swear­ing
that I’ll nev­er write like this again.

I won­der why she ends her phras­es
the way she does,
about whether her titles come from
those clever lit­tle moments,
or vice-ver­sa.

Maybe I can fig­ure out how they do it
and I can express what it felt like to hug
her before leav­ing,
about how I did­n’t real­ize how hard I was
doing it until I let go and felt her
breathe again.

She would­n’t admit that she’d miss me
until I did it first. She had
said it more than me, last time, you see.

She had paid it for­ward,
now it was time for me to pay it back.

Eagle vs Shark

Eagle vs Shark

Eagle vs Shark is the new Postal Service.

The movie I can’t stop watch­ing. The movie I can’t watch with any­one else.

Not because it’s painful in any way, but because it’s sacred. A movie where no one else would under­stand the way I see it. A reminder that I was adored once too, when some­one loved me beyond lim­it or con­di­tion. (A mem­o­ry that I need right now.)

But I will leave you with this lit­tle song, if only for a short while. You need colours and can­dles in your room when you lis­ten though, and an imag­i­na­tion will serve you well. Having a make­out part­ner and wear­ing a cos­tume of your favourite ani­mal is option­al.

That is all you need to know, for this is all I can say.

Thinking Of Her

Sometimes, as I’m falling asleep, I think of her.

She’s lying on my stom­ach again, lis­ten­ing to my heart beat, hands tucked neat­ly under my body. Or she’s spoon­ing me, her arm rest­ing on the crook of my waist, with a fin­ger draw­ing dis­tract­ing cir­cu­lar lines on my chest.

Muse in grass

Sometimes we’re in the tall grass, sur­round­ed by colours of life with the warmth of the sun above us. A regres­sion to a time when all I had to think about was the colour of pop­si­cle I would have when I got home from camp. How unfair that our inno­cence is tak­en from us when we need it most.

And I lie there in bed, wait­ing for sleep to take me as the images lead me on.

My body telling me to let go, my mind strug­gling to keep her next to me a moment longer.

Your Interest In My Love

I’ve always enjoyed read­ing about peo­ple who are in love, but most of all when that love is unre­quit­ed. Vivid pic­tures paint­ed in details about a saucy diastema, the observed rit­u­al of walk­ing by a cer­tain table every day to get a cup of water for paint, an unso­licit­ed brush against a hip. Stories about awk­ward­ness, weak­ness, burn­ing desire.

Perhaps it’s because I can relate to these expe­ri­ences, or because they make me feel like I’m less alone in my own clum­sy deal­ings with the oppo­site sex. Even though there are count­less sto­ries writ­ten about unre­quit­ed love, there aren’t enough. For the few of us who are “oppressed by the fig­ures of beau­ty”, as Leonard Cohen calls it, noth­ing makes us feel bet­ter. All we can do is silent­ly com­mis­er­ate with the words of those who share them­selves in this way.

When I look through my old entries, it seems like most of them are about love or a torch I car­ry in one way or anoth­er, and how this affects me.

And some­times I won­der if this is the rea­son why peo­ple come here to read my words.