Open Letter to Second Him
I'm trying this new thing where I put on a random CD or playlist and writewritewrite. I want to see how melodies and harmonies and rhythm and lyrics and themes affect my story. Alter my syntax. Change me.
So I'm trying this out and, in the process, I'm drowning in these memories of you and me. And it's silly how much I remember. Like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and when you speak and when you just are. And the way you say certain words with this ridiculous accent and intone certain parts of one word but not the other, your voice filling me completely and raining down on me, making me smile just as every single rainstorm makes me smile, filling me with incomparable joy, never mind the fact that even your nonsense is articulate and persuasive. Or the way you'd always smirk at me; proof that my feelings for you were as clear to you as they were to me, a trophy in a glass case for you to admire or deny at your leisure. I'm convinced you knew the extent of my feelings for you... I know how transparent I am. It's embarrassing, but I can't hide the effect people have on me. If I like you, you know. And boy... did I ever like you...
Sometimes --- like tonight --- I remember how much I liked you and I'm overwhelmed by those feelings. And the way I felt for you was so ingrained in the way I felt about my life there and I was oh so tempted to say fuck you to my life here and stay but knowing that what I felt for my life while I was there was synonymous with the way I felt about you was damning and terrifying and not something I could control, so I said fuck you to my life there and came back here. I came home. But I don't regret it. Not as much as I thought I would regret choosing a life there because if I had chosen to stay there with you, I would have fooled myself into thinking that what I felt for you could somehow transfer to you and my feelings would inspire you to feel a fraction of what I feel for you, for me. But I admit that it's more that I sometimes feel a pressing in my chest. Not quite an ache but definitely not a pain I can ignore. It weighs down on me until I feel close to tears --- this cloying, asphyxiating feeling.
And I do hate that you are synonymous with my life then and with the music I love. Because what does that say about me?
It's a question I'd rather not dwell on.
So I'm trying this out and, in the process, I'm drowning in these memories of you and me. And it's silly how much I remember. Like the way your eyes crinkle when you smile and when you speak and when you just are. And the way you say certain words with this ridiculous accent and intone certain parts of one word but not the other, your voice filling me completely and raining down on me, making me smile just as every single rainstorm makes me smile, filling me with incomparable joy, never mind the fact that even your nonsense is articulate and persuasive. Or the way you'd always smirk at me; proof that my feelings for you were as clear to you as they were to me, a trophy in a glass case for you to admire or deny at your leisure. I'm convinced you knew the extent of my feelings for you... I know how transparent I am. It's embarrassing, but I can't hide the effect people have on me. If I like you, you know. And boy... did I ever like you...
Sometimes --- like tonight --- I remember how much I liked you and I'm overwhelmed by those feelings. And the way I felt for you was so ingrained in the way I felt about my life there and I was oh so tempted to say fuck you to my life here and stay but knowing that what I felt for my life while I was there was synonymous with the way I felt about you was damning and terrifying and not something I could control, so I said fuck you to my life there and came back here. I came home. But I don't regret it. Not as much as I thought I would regret choosing a life there because if I had chosen to stay there with you, I would have fooled myself into thinking that what I felt for you could somehow transfer to you and my feelings would inspire you to feel a fraction of what I feel for you, for me. But I admit that it's more that I sometimes feel a pressing in my chest. Not quite an ache but definitely not a pain I can ignore. It weighs down on me until I feel close to tears --- this cloying, asphyxiating feeling.
And I do hate that you are synonymous with my life then and with the music I love. Because what does that say about me?
It's a question I'd rather not dwell on.
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