I can't talk about you without talking about myself. 

You are who I would have been if no one had loved me. 

I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Thank you for letting me go.

You were a storm and I was something you would have destroyed, but what a view. 

Sometimes a secret makes you feel special, even if you aren't. Even if you know you can never be. In spite of, in memory of something you gave up a long time about. 

A secret. That small smile that creeps across your mouth during the monotonous moments that occur during the day.

A secret. The little warmth between your legs when you think of a life that is very different from the one you lead. 

A secret.That hot mouth against your mouth. Another world, complete, self-sustaining. 

Whenever I see something beautiful, I stop and stare. I sort of revel in it's existence. I feel privileged to be witnessing something so beautiful, and to have been paying  enough attention to realize it's presence. I've always been like this. My instinct is to see something unique, to love it and then to be happy until it goes away.

My mother thinks this is what's wrong with me.

For my mother and sister, when they see something beautiful or unique, when they experience something enjoyable, they want to grab it, contain it and control it.

My mother says, if I knew any better I'd be married by now.

I like loving men. They are a counterpart to myself, that very unknowable, so desirable "other." I like what they write, how they talk and the noises they make. I like the way they eat and their facial expressions. I like the gait of their walk and how their posture changes in different situations. I like comparing his natural everyday voice with his whisper voice when he's on top of me. I like noticing if his snoring is completely random or if there is some underlying pattern that will reveal itself if I listen long enough. I like the way he can be surprisingly tender and vulnerable, I like that sometimes, I can make him happy.

I don't know much about relationships or being a girlfriend or being a wife or a mother. But I do know something about loving someone because they inspire you to be more than you thought possible. I know about loving someone because it's the most natural and wonderful thing you've ever done in your life. I may not have your ring on my finger or have given birth to the child you love. I am just someone who loves you and will continue to love you because you are beautiful, talented, and endlessly amazing.

She called me crying. She told me she was pregnant.

She asked me not to sleep with her boyfriend again.

There was a lot of crying and a lot of cursing. When there was a pause I told her I wasn't anything to worry about and that I would leave her family alone. 

I was supposed to meet up with him for dinner. I asked to be seated in the patio so I could smoke. I ordered a vodka on the rocks. I arrived early and before he arrived I was on my second drink. 

I told him I couldn't see him anymore, when he asked why, I told him that I had a boyfriend and I was feeling guilty for cheating on him.

"You've had a boyfriend this whole time!?"

"Yes, I know, I should have told you, I just can't do this anymore."

He got up and left. I don't know why I didn't yell at him, I don't know why I lied about having a boyfriend. 

Kiss

He had this stupid way of making everything sound like a question. It made me feel better because he never sounded like he knew anything. Everything became a chance to discover ourselves, a chance to figure something out, an opportunity to create something. So we became two explorers in a world where everything is already figured out.

He would play his guitar and I would write. He would place his head on my lap while I told him stories. He would listen to me for hours with that same expression of wonder and interest. I'd stop and blush. 

He was the only person I've ever been with who actually kissed my tears away. Gently he would brush the tears aside with his fingers and then he would press his warm lips on my cheeks, gently nibbling on my ear and then kissing down the slope of my neck. He always took his time with me, I wasn't expected to be anyone else or to know what to do, I didn't have to ask permission or wonder what he wanted. He just wanted me. If this wasn't love, this was the closest I have ever come to it. 

Women

I think sometimes when you smile a lot it almost seems like you're talking. It's the only thing people really respond to. At the end of the "conversation" when you haven't said much, but were interested in the conversation, when you've emphatically nodded your head and smiled reassuringly, they say you are a great listener. They don't even notice you didn't really contribute anything, you might have said, "yes" or "go on" but you weren't saying anything that meant anything. We can have entire relationships like this.

Whenever I feel too confident I remember I only write the word "restaurant" when I can check the spelling, because I always mess up the spelling. I also don't know anything about geography, sometimes I forget which hemisphere I live in. Sometimes I mispronounce words, this is a minefield and can happen at anytime, during any conversation. These little matters of fact leave me vulnerable and eternally humble. 

My favorite people in the world are men. I like women, but I never know what to talk with them about. A lot of women hate there ex-boyfriends, they can discriminate between different scents of candles, they watch reality television, they watch romantic comedies, they have children, they want children, they are married, they want to be married, they gossip, they talk about celebrities, they like shopping, they say one thing but mean something entirely different, they are passive aggressive, they hug, they talk about shoes, they talk about other peoples lives as if they were their own. Like when they talk about their children's achievements as their own, or their husband's money as their money. I don't get it, I don't like it. And I stay away from it. 

Sometimes I dream about having a female confidant. I imagine us going to the library and attending concerts. I think about us going running in the park and maybe buying things from an antique shop. I think about us drinking together and laughing. I imagine her helping me pick out a shade of lipstick or helping me select a vibrator. I imagine us flirting with guys at a bar. I'm sure she's out there, and maybe one day we'll meet and have a pillow fight in our panties and bras. 

Tequila

The old man in front of me was buying a bottle of tequila. The bottle was plastic and the man looked about 80 years old. He shuffled. I guess when you are that old it takes too much effort to lift your limbs. Fat people shuffle, maybe it's because it's too laboring to move in full motion. The old man had a very smooth looking face, there were wrinkles, but they didn't move. He had the same facial expression, he mumbled and didn't acknowledge anyone, not the cashier, not me, just paid attention to the change he got from his 20 dollar bill.

His face looked like a topographical map. His eyes reminded me of stones you see when you look into a river bed. Dark and glossy. I wish I would have said hello or something. 

I paid for my groceries. I forgot my recyclable bag again and I don't like using plastic bags, so I held everything in my arms. When the cashier gave me my change a dime fell. I pretended not to notice. There was a baby in a stroller who kept screaming about the dime. I pretended not to hear her, than the mother said, "Excuse me, but I think you dropped your dime." I had my arms full, if I bent down I could potentially drop everything. The woman just stood there looking at me, the cashier picked up my dime and handed it to me, I said thank you and left the store quickly. I hate disrupting the natural flow of the grocery line process. 

I hate the grocery store, but I got to see that topographical map of an old man, so I guess it was worth it. 

Night

"I fell in love with someone else."

"ok"

"I don't think I was ever in love with you."

"ok".

"Are you ok?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, are you ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? I was so sure I was going to be the one to leave, to stray, but it's you. I'm actually proud of myself. I loved you as best as I could. I didn't do anything wrong. I was good."

"Yes, you didn't do anything wrong. You're good." 

"I know. Listen, I'm fine. All I want is for you to be deliriously happy, and if that's not with me, it's ok. I love you, and that isn't contingent on you loving me back or anything, it's just a fact. I only want the best for you. I've gotta go, it's late."

 

This is the way things end. Not with name calling or yelling. It's afterwards when you look for evidence. It's only when it's very quiet that you wonder, "Did he ever love me?" It's where you tell yourself, yes, yes of course he did. But there is always that doubt. That aching says, "He never loved you, he never could." And so you look for birthday cards, note cards from flowers he sent you. You study pictures with a magnifying glass. You look at your faces, yes, you are both happy, you were both in love. You sift through handwritten notes, text messages, you listen to voicemail messages. Obsessively looking for evidence that what happened was real, authentic, that it meant something. 

And then text messages get deleted, voicemails are erased. Birthday cards  and notes are discarded. Pictures are put away, out of sight. You move on, you live your little life and forget about anything involving an "us." You don't wonder what he's doing or what he's thinking, he becomes a pleasant memory. You reason things out, you reassure yourself that everything is better now, because for all practical reasons you are better off without him. You go even further, you begin to doubt if you had ever, in fact, been in love with him. You admit, that when everything was settled, those weeks following the break up, what you felt wasn't anguish or regret, what you felt was: relief. 

Sometimes, when it's been an especially rough week. When everything that could go wrong does, when you feel low, impotent, worthless. When the harshness of reality pushes you down and holds you there, helpless and pathetic, you wish, silently, that there was someone who knew you. And then you remember that you did, in a way, have someone love you. And you look at an email he wrote to you when you both thought you loved each other.

L,

I miss you so much baby. So much! I miss just being with your perfect little self. I miss your infectious laugh. I miss your pussy. I miss the taste of your asshole. I miss everything about you and us. I can't wait to reconnect with you in Shanghai, probably early tomorrow morning for you. I still dont know for sure, but I'm hoping. God, I love you so much and I would give anything to be with you right now. love u love u love u, - Anthony

Zoo Watching

I watch people during the day as if I were at a zoo. I stare and try to take photographs of them in their natural habitat. I follow zoo rules, I don't feed them or blow smoke in their faces. Sometimes they try to communicate with me, but I rarely understand them.

A person talking about their car or job or life tends to bore me. I listen with furrowed eyebrows. I nod my head according to tone and inflection, but nothing computes. 

I watch their body language, the way their hands flail when they are describing some event. The shape of their mouth, the lips stretching over their teeth. I watch the way the wind picks up strands of their hair and briefly lifts and then abandons the strand. I think about how hair is dead. I think about how some of the stars in the sky burned out years and years ago, but because of the speed of light and time and space etc, what we see as a "star" doesn't exist anymore. We think we see something, but it doesn't exist anymore, not in the way we understand existence. Existence isn't what it used to be. 

I watch the way he approaches me. His gentle tone, his friendly posture. He leans over to talk to me. I raise my eyes to meet his gaze. I watch his hands, the brief movements. The shuffling of his feet. I watch the way he licks his lips. I see the way his breath is released into the cold air and taken up in currents to the sky. I watch the skin on his neck pucker and stretch and he continues to emit unrecognizable utterances. 

I picture us on a beach. He is embarrassed that his legs aren't as tanned as mine. I laugh and tell him, no one cares about the paleness of his legs. I grab his hand to reassure him. We walk into the ocean, hands clasped, the cold water meeting the tips of our toes. The waves, meeting us, time and time again. Natural and predictive. He kisses my neck. I playfully push him away and tell him not in public. I smile coyly. He kisses my lips. We spend eternity in these minutes. Each gesture studied, each kiss refined, every breath accounted for.

He pauses, he furrows his eyebrows, he looks puzzled. Reassuringly I smile. I gently touch his arm and he continues his mutterings. 

I sit in my car quietly and smoke a cigarette. I think about the days events, what happened and what could have happened. I smile contently. I look at the glow of my cigarette burn more intense with each inhale. I turn the car on, I think to myself, "I could go anywhere." And then I drive home. 

Vows

You could have been anything, you chose to be mine.

I will love you with every beat of my heart, I will honor you with every breath that I take.

I love everything about you, your ideas, passions, complexities, inconsistencies, habits, propensities.

I love you. I accept you. My love, my heart and my soul will adore you and cherish you for the rest of my life.

Reality is a bother.

I woke up 37 minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off. Not enough time to go back to sleep, but I didn't want to get up. I was awake, but I didn't get out of bed. I raged against my alarm clock, I pouted, I squirmed. I did not masturbate, but I thought about it briefly. I got out of bed and had to find clothes to wear, I should have ironed, but I hate ironing. I got into the shower, it was cold and I became completely awake. I hate washing my hair. I wish someone would wash my hair for me, not even in a sexual way, just in a happy helpful way. I didn't get soap in my eye but I put my shampoo in after I put my face wash on. I usually shampoo before I put my face wash on. After rinsing and washing body and hair I decided to try and masturbate in the shower, like the way they do in movies. I was naked and wet, but I didn't feel sexy at all, I felt tired and silly. I even tried to talk dirty to myself, using funny voices and I ended up having a conversation with myself about the pitfalls of direct realism.