Miss Beautiful Something

March 22 2009.

I forgot to read the Postsecrets this morning, I was in such a rush to see you.

Woke several times throughout the night, thinking- purple shirt? Black shirt? Pink skinny jeans? Blue skinny jeans? And in the end, I was so particular, flipping through my map, turning up the daft punk, ringing black rims around my eyes, pout and flicker, that I just had time to pull on my blue bandana and chucks, and holler as I fell down the porch steps.

I asked Bitter Boy if sixteen was Too Young. He said, Only if fourteen is Too Young for me.
I don’t know if you even care about Marx, you probably don’t. But I wish-wish-wish! I want someone I can think so hard with that it hurts. You seem true, your head just so dip-dizzy full of curls, shy eyes ablink. Picnicking on a tombstone. The pull (too soon?) of things inside that yearn for something greater. Thinking of Hannah Arendt and Sontag, and I’m getting great ideals confused for crushing.

Sorry if I’m forward- I resisted for hours (!) watching your fingers curl, wishing I could wrap my fingers round them. I knew when you first pit-pattered through the door, all deep eyes and teeth. I could imagine peacock feathers caught in your hair. And I had just meant to sigh twice in frustration, but the second time I kissed you instead. It was very almost an accident- my startled heart.

You opened the door for me, saying “Chivalry’s not dead,” and I’d just been flipping through books and pages looking for those lines. If I still wrote poetry, I’d write you something strong and sweet. A cup of tea, sugarlumps doused in whiskey. Too much? In my delirium of your lips, I took the wrong train. Tumbled out at a deserted dock in the dark, a boy with mussed hair and sleepy eyes pointed out the time. Time fell away at both sides.

Nietzsche (shall we steal him?) tells us, “All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking”, so let’s walk these streets forever. I keep remembering ends of sentences I wanted to say, wanted to pour into your eyes. All the ‘yes’es and sing-songs got caught between my tongue as a gaze follows the definition of your eyelashes.

It's (kind of, maybe) an exquisite story of several years. Two characters passing in the street, in trains of opposite directions, clutching the same book, but one is married or one is lost or moving far away. But eventually, they hold hands in the park together, and feed birds pieces of bread out of a bag, or chuckle at badly-written newspaper headlines. And the reader finds them, and thinks, Oh! Of course. That’s why their eyes kept catching and holding all this time. (Kind of. Maybe.)

You told me in July you thought you loved me- a joke, I suppose. Also, that I must heavy dreams. I do.

Ethereal- Adj.
1. Light, airy, or tenuous.
2. Extremely delicate or refined.
3. Heavenly or celestial.

Now that I reread it, I think it’s all you. Yes, Rose, You.