I hesitate to write this.
By now, you feel the sarcasm seep from every pore in my skin like a toxic disease every time I open my mouth-- well, you know what I mean.
Being fowl and sarcastic, rude and pessimistic through the words and blurb in this blogging world is easy for me. Sentences flow much better-- I feel alive as a writer. I feel truly myself in this negative state.
Conclusions have been made though, and since I can’t do both I suppose I can’t be called a writer at all-- delicious interpretations come out in limits, and it seems I have plenty of them.
Words flat or not, I’m pushing myself to truly express something other than what I already have. Not for you per say, or to prove some magnificent point that I’m much more than what I’ve shown-- I would rather you think that my ‘fuck’ and the molestations I’ve endured are the most of me. No, that is not the point. The point is-- I need to say it, to write it, to breathe it and think it aloud so it’s real. Like the tattoos on my body, I’m desperate for that reminder to myself. As if permanently scarring this skin in black will make it come alive and ring much more true for that.
I listen to a foreign film now, the beautiful words in French echoing in my head, but this TV will not allow subtitles so I have no idea what the beautiful words mean. It makes me sad, but at the same time, I understand the over-all meaning, and that is all that matters to me.
I clear my throat, and I begin.
I’ve remembered this scene a million times in my head. The airport was weird-- smaller and extended more than I was used to. My own airport back at home, it’s all clustered together. Where you depart from is the same place you arrive. This was not the case at this airport. You step off the plane and you find yourself in your own little building. You don’t run and hurry to find what portion of the airport will have your bags. You step off and fuckin’ wah-lah, there it is.
I wait for my bag, and I glance at the time. I received a text from you-- you said you were running a little late, and that you were sorry. I thought you were joking, was almost expecting to see your handsome face in this foreign place as a surprise, but you weren’t there.
I got my bag, nervous as hell. Nervous as fuck, really.
I hadn’t had the time to dress up the way I had wanted to. I had rushed off from work, barely made it to the airport in time.
I waited outside that small building, anxiously waiting for your call or for your face to appear in a busy crowd. When my cell rang, your own voice was nervous.
And then you said that you could see me.
You were laughing, and that sweet voice of yours shook harder than before.
You couldn’t stop telling me how pretty I was, how scared you were.
I was laughing on the outside, but on the inside, me still not being able to locate you, I wanted you to tell me where you were. I wanted you to step out from the shadows. You were making fun of me, teasing me in the fact that you could see me, but I couldn’t see you.
Eyes darting this way and that, I laughed some more, demanding that you just come out! I swear to God, it felt like forever until you finally stepped up behind. When I realized where you were, I don’t think I even said hi, but my arms were around you and I wouldn’t let go. Your arms were strong, and I had never felt more safe before. I know my mouth found yours, and I can still remember the hesitance you had, like you’d never kissed a woman before.
I don’t believe in love at first sight, but if I did, that’s exactly what it was.
We must have stopped at least twenty times on the short distance to your car, you getting more passionate in your kiss, our hugs tighter and more desperate.
That night was perfect. I couldn’t stop looking at you, and you were the same. Our hands held tight, drifted to each other’s legs, as if we were both checking to make sure the other was real.
You drove around for a few hours that night, trying to find that old-people’s restaurant because you knew how much I enjoyed those places. Everything was closed, but we got to talk, you showed me your stomping grounds. I was fucking here, and I never wanted to leave.
On our walk in the cemetery, I nearly dragged you to the ground. I wanted your hands on me-- nothing turns me on more than the feel of a man’s hands. After so much talking that we had had, I wanted to show you the other ways I could love you.
When we got back, we went to your room-- a room that had been so beautifully staged. You were always amazing at lighting, and the modern appearance and decoration. The most relaxing and beautiful room I had ever been in.
Before you made love to me, you made sure it was okay. We had decided before we would let it happen as it would happen. But like porcelain, you treated me like that fragile state. You didn’t want to break me. I saw it in your eyes how much you loved me. You would have done anything for me.
I knew you loved me. I know I loved you. I’ve mentioned before, I sat in my driveway at my Riverton home, and I vowed to myself that I would be the reason you loved the world again.
After a storm, can things ever be the same? Is it my fault or is it yours? Am I as ugly as I think I am? I ruined you, and I’m sorry. Out of all the times ‘I love you’ has left my mouth, saying it to you was one of the only true times I meant it.
I hold onto that memory, so many memories like that between us, because I want to believe that it can still exist. I want to believe I can make up what went wrong, and I can’t forget that feeling that the better half of me is gone now that you’re gone.
True questions are rarely answered-- but I fuckin’ wish this one would be.
|
|
| Views: 48
Email This to a Friend 
