Posts tagged with "love"

i miss

try­ing new foods with my Uncle Joe and the fas­ci­na­tion I used to have for Six Feet Under and being able to sleep more than four con­tin­u­ous hours and gui­tar lessons and the sound girls make when you squeeze them just right and the idea of camp­ing but not the actu­al act and remem­ber­ing how to play Sunny Road and Trolley and Steph already and snow and peo­ple-watch­ing when tak­ing the bus and long-term rela­tion­ships and

two girls and a baby

these kind of moments before we all par­take and

the smell of rain in Paris and make­outs and know­ing what to say to peo­ple when they ask me how I’m doing and being led by the hand to the bed­room and being called Jeffy Bear and hav­ing a rea­son to wear Classic by Banana Republic and get­ting real­ly excit­ed and being pur­sued by some­one I’m not try­ing to avoid and the time in my life before all this med­ica­tion and hav­ing some­one I could call my best friend and cud­dling and walks and old /b/ and Bruce Springstein before he went rock and no one I should­n’t and hav­ing a Tai Chi teacher and

bums like this

lit­tle bums like this and

know­ing how to play piano and pounc­ing on sur­vivors with Dave and Tyler and hav­ing a sta­ble source of income and being part of her life and hav­ing her in mine and Hawaiian sun­sets and find­ing sales for clothes that fit me and play­ing songs for Antje and the inti­ma­cy of oral and simul­ta­ne­ous orgasms and sex, obvi­ous­ly and hav­ing some­one to spoil and new episodes of Reno 911 and host­ing big par­ties and the way Leonard would sleep on my neck.

I filled the void you left with the rest of my life

And that’s why I spend so much time with peo­ple now, why it’s a lit­tle eas­i­er to bend each pitch, and why I don’t mind hazy night dri­ves through pur­ple sky and deer warn­ings as long as Mogwai is on. Everything I do is an attempt to be whole again, cause I still think of you with me at every din­ner, movie, episode, nap, ride, gath­er­ing, and con­cert.

But sure­ly you can’t be the same per­son I see in these pho­tos tak­en so long ago. You’d be a lit­tle wis­er from the years, a lit­tle stronger from the expe­ri­ences, almost cer­tain­ly sport­ing a new hair­cut, but I bet your heart would always be the same. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let go. I real­ized that no mat­ter what hap­pens, regard­less of how peo­ple grow and change, I’d always love that heart. That’s the only rea­son I under­stand what you meant by always have a weak­ness.

I filled the void you left with the rest of my life, but it’s still hard to be whole with­out you.

Sometimes I hate the word love

cause you speak of it like it’s the answer, when you define your­self by your sin­gle­dom. It’s a sta­tus you try to wear proud­ly, but how much you talk about your ide­al mate only reveals how much you hate being alone.

What you’re look­ing for is hard to find. That’s your excuse. But your “high stan­dards” are defined by the most pet­ty things, and all those pet­ty things keep hold­ing you back, a hypocrisy that makes you the vic­tim. That’s why your life is filled with part 1s and nev­er any part 2s. Then you talk as if we should be shocked that you’re sin­gle, vul­ner­a­ble, and lone­ly.

You think love is some­thing one does, instead of some­thing one means. You can see the beau­ty in a gift, but not the thought behind it. Then you pass off your ideas on love as wis­dom and advice, when they’re sim­ply the things you want, cause you don’t have the wis­dom to know what you actu­al­ly need to be in a suc­cess­ful rela­tion­ship.

It’s the most shal­low form of love pos­si­ble. That’s why I hate the word. Not cause of the way you define it — I don’t judge any­one by their def­i­n­i­tion of hap­pi­ness — but because you think it means the same thing I do every time you use it.

And I want to tear it from your throat.

gambler's fallacy

It’s my eleventh time here in four years, almost three times per. At this rate — con­sid­er­ing how sel­dom I get out nowa­days — it’s one of the only places I fre­quent. Each vis­it serves as a small time­stamp, from the year we went home with dif­fer­ent peo­ple to the year we went home togeth­er, and all the times caught in between among heavy snow and mechan­i­cal hors­es.

wedding name card

 

Strange how often I come here when it’s so rarely by choice. I always think I’ll be up next time, that I won’t be sit­ting by myself in one of these great halls, cause for­tune even­tu­al­ly smiles on every per­son who takes a chance on love.