These are love letters for landfills. Bits and pieces of my heart that should have probably ended up in some trash can, or maybe in the hands of the people I write them about (haha, fuck that), but they ended up here. For you. Do with them what you will.
He has a girlfriend now. A girlfriend he says he will not give his left hand to, but I can tell he will.
Its been ten years since my thumb pinched his lower back into my palm while we took each other’s virginities.
We were foolish and too young, and we knew it. Beyond the door was the company kept at the time; people I have since severed from my adult life. The pressure of their judgment pinned us down in the bed that night.
A boy, now a man.
He rarely crosses my mind. Though, when he does, its always fondly. The memories tiptoe before moving way for the present and politely exiting. Nodding their decencies to me, letting me know they remember, but they must be going. It’s a relief we’ve made it this far.
He was my first everything.
Like learning to ride a bike or losing baby teeth, it was enthralling, magical, painful, making way for bigger things. Something that you, unless a horror occurs out of nowhere, experience once – and only once – in your life.
And I’m glad it was with him.
He’s falling for me and I can tell.
I can tell the same way you can tell a dog is about to die. I can tell the same way you can tell its Sunday and the shadows burn differently.
He’s falling for me. And I’m letting him.
This has happened before, of course. Their eyes twinkle, they drink your words, they watch you as you cock your head back and laugh, totally carefree. If I was falling back, there’s no way I’d be carefree. My moves would be calculated, my laughs measured. But they project. You are her. The girl of his dreams. Right? Right?
You’ll get bored of me, I’d tell them. You’ll find my flaws and the head cocked back laugh will become annoying and I’ll become annoying and my face will melt like a Dali of unfulfilled promise.
But he hasn’t. In the morning, he calls before he goes to sleep. At night, he calls as he wakes up. Germany is far from Australia, and he calls.
I’ll get bored of him, I tell myself. I’ll find his flaws and the cracks in his past.
But I don’t get bored of him. And when I see his flaws, they melt like a Dali and swirl into something kind of fucked up and perfect. I can’t look away.
I’m falling for him. And I’m letting myself.
I’m falling for him. And I can tell.
There was never enough. At that point, the want – the crave – was insatiable. I needed him. I needed to feel how my feet ran along his legs as I laid on top of him, my skin pressed to his. Fitting our smooth, marble castes by God into each other. I would stare. His eyelashes looked like those of the children I had wished we one day have together. I remember wanting that.
He is gone now. My memories of him are usually negative in nature, but I cherish nights like these where I am both lonely and nostalgic for a time and man which once was and no longer exists. Pining for a ghost, I’m lost and this usually lulls me to sleep like any fevered thought in a warm bed.
It is hard to bury a vision you have played out in your head for years. Hard until, well, it doesn’t happen and life itself forces you, drags you to accept that its over. The vision is dead. It never happened and never will. And you are to labor over its internment, blistering your hands and scarring your psyche as you lay dirt and time on top of something you had held so close to your heart.
That’s what I did to him.