It took a while to get used to cooking for one, but eventually I got the hang of it. Sometimes I still come home and wish I had someone here waiting for me. He hasn’t been here for months, and I don’t want him to be. I don’t miss him, I miss the company, I miss cooking and drinking wine and having someone tell me about their day. Wine doesn’t taste as sweet alone, and cooking with only the cat staring at the food on the counter intently is only a little amusing. I don’t want you to come home, I want someone new, to make new memories over dinner.
The morning after was awkward. You went outside to see in the sober daylight what exactly you had done to your car, and I took a shower and tried my best to remember what happened after we got home.
You stayed outside a while, giving me time to begin cooking brunch, I wanted to stay busy, stay distracted. I didn’t know if I had said or done anything awful last night, and I wanted to avoid eye contact. Still, it was strange how we went around the kitchen the same way that we used to; that odd familiarity. Still, I couldn’t help but think that the wreck was some fateful metaphor for the demise of our relationship.
I had run into you at the bar last night. We hadn’t spoken really since we broke up, but there we were. Sitting at the bar, having a legitimate conversation. I was drunk, a number of shots and a few beers deep, and you weren’t far behind. We left together.
You wrecked your car on the way to my apartment.
When the tow truck dropped us off, that’s when it ends for me. I can’t remember, and that’s terrifying. It makes me never want to drink again.
You held me that morning when we woke up though. You held me, so it couldn’t have been that bad.. right?
I want you. All of you. To take care of you when you need me to. You’re probably going to tell me I can’t have you, but that’s what I want, ideally, and if I’m right with you telling me I can’t have you, then I’ll take what I can get.
I want someone I can talk to, and I want it to be you. It sounds simple, because it is. when I’m angry, I want to talk to you; when I’m happy, I want to talk to you. When I’m lonely, I want to talk to you, because I feel like you have a sweet, soft side, and I want to stay there, because it’s warm. I just want to share myself with you because I think you can understand me, somehow, and I think I can understand you, too, if not completely right now, then maybe someday.
I’m trying as much as possible to be practical here, and not foolish. So I’m going to tell you, I want to be affectionate with you, maybe with words, or songs, or poetry. I want to be expressive with you. It might not be your thing, but maybe, in the long run, I want you to be expressive with me, too. I want to share my world with you, and I want you to share your world with me too; with all the secrets and revelations and futures.
Someday I want to go on vacation with you. I know you want to go to london and you want to go to new york, I want to do those things with you. See the world, and when we’re ready to retire, go back to our shelter, kiss, touch, fuck. I want to be dangerous with you. I want to be risky. Show up out of nowhere.
Em, you’re the only person I’d share a goddamn cigarette with. That’s really fucked up, but I would. I want to try new things with you, and retry old things i failed at. I want you to do the same.
How does one go about documenting happiness?
What is there to write about happiness?
When one is sad we write morose words constantly filled with pain and loathing and frustration. But when we are happy we forget to document, we are so busy enjoying the warmth that comes with such an emotion to write about it.
I haven’t felt better than I do now in a very long time. I left him back in November and now that the spring is here I no longer feel scornful or disappointed, I’m free. I am as free as the birds that fly above my head as I lay in the warm grass in the middle of the park. He’s not here, and I’m glad he’s not. I’m here, I’m healthy now, and that’s all that matters.
We were friends for a long time before we started dating. Well, not really a long time, but several months at least. I remember when I met him, I think I was 18 and at some shitty venue that was falling apart beneath our feet and I thought he was some kind of creeper. It was November then I think. By the early spring I had developed a huge crush on him, believe it or not. We were hanging out one day in the city, just being dorks as always; “So,” I began, “when are you going to kiss me?” “What?” I swear his eyes got bigger as if I had caught him off guard. “I mean seriously,” and I looked back down at whatever it was I was doing pretending to be interested in it. Then it happened, he kissed me. It was the best first kiss I have ever experienced.
I envied her. She had this confidence I couldn’t understand. She was remarkable, beautiful. She was everything I wanted to be. Thin, tan, and had everyone clamoring to be near her. Allie was my first girl crush, my only one.
Her face was flawless, her legs went on for days, and I was lucky enough to be called her best friend. I had this guilty excitement every time she held my hand, kissed my cheek, or played with my hair. I caught myself every time, wanting to kiss her, to hold her, feel her. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it. But she could.
We were at a party one muggy summer night. I was in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with some guy getting too close and it was Allie who came to my rescue. She came and stood between me and the guy, “You doing alright, babe?” she had asked.
“Yea, lady. I’m fine.”
Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she brushed the hair away from my face, holding my cheek with her soft petite hand, she kissed me. She stood in between my legs, and I wrapped them around her small waist. My hands came up with no help from my rational mind and held her face to mine. She pulled me into her with her fingers hooked through the loops of my denim shorts.
The party stopped around us, disappeared. The guy was watching, stuck and staring at something I couldn’t even believe happening in front of him and all I could think about was her. Her lips were soft and gentle. Her hands light but demanding . Then she pulled away, ever so slowly, fixed her hair even though it was already perfect.
Holding my hand, she turned to the guy, who was blushing and stuttering in our general direction, “We’ll see you later,”
And she led me out of the kitchen, and sheepishly, I went with her.
We drank a lot, probably more then we should’ve, but we had fun. He would get to be so silly and more romantic after he had a few then he ever would sober. He was always making me smile. One night we were outside the bar smoking. It was early November and just getting cold enough that one had to start bundling up. They had speakers outside, and M83 happened to be playing, Kim and Jessie to be exact. He grabbed be by the waist and swung me around, nuzzled my face and whispered sweet nothings into my ear. Our friends, laughing at us as they watched, were nothing but amused with his antics. “I love this girl!” he yelled into the night sky as he tried to dance with me. All I could do was smile, and close my eyes.
I didn’t want the night to end.
“I am overwhelmed by the urge to run away. I want to hide away in the state park, drink whiskey from the bottle hidden away from the world. I want to jump off waterfalls, drive for hours. Any destination, any place other than this cramped apartment. We’ll live in the woods and let the dirt and sand cover us to our knees like we used to.” “I have to work on Monday.” “Just for the weekend?” “Maybe.”
(photo credit unknown)
I fell in love this past summer I’m afraid, and it hurts to come to the realization that he and I will never be able to be together again. I will never feel his arm draped gently over my waist when I wake up in the morning, or the soft hairs of his beard brush the back of my neck. We only had eight days uninterrupted in which I fell in love with every single part of him. The way he dressed, walked, held me hand, or called me ‘babe’ when he asked if I wanted coffee in the morning.
Life and it’s circumstances are an unjust thing. Whatever it was that brought us together did so at the absolute wrong time in our lives and stranded us 600 miles apart. I’ll stop daydreaming of the house we promised each other with the fenced back yard, greyhound dog, and the familiar lifestyle neither of us had growing up. I will never feel him again, I will miss him desperately until finally the feeling numbs and I will be able to take a cold shower without shivering, get out of this bed without wishing he were still next to me.
(Source: houseoferotica)
Believe it or not, after my friends and I met him they made fun of me.
“Girl, he’s perfect for you!”, I was so embarrassed. But I mean, if I’m being honest, I must be completely predictable, because it was only a few weeks later he was knocking on my apartment door in the middle of the night asking if he could stay the night there instead of having to drive home.
I awkwardly let him, he slept on the sofa and I in the bedroom. That was the beginning of it, that simple. He stayed with me the rest of the weekend, we spent all day, everyday together for that 4 day period. That sunday we went to the polo match together and of course my friends came up, giving me the ‘knowing eye’ and asking questions about what happened. All I could do was stand there blushing watching the match and trying not to do or say anything that would lead the girls to make any conclusions.
But we rode back to my apartment that night, and it was the first time he stayed in the bed with me. We didn’t fuck, we cuddled in front of a movie, him spooning me. The last thing I remember is him kissing the back of my neck as I fell asleep with a smile on my face. It was easy, comfortable.
