My first love?
My first love was a pair of open hands, palms facing the sky. He looked like a six foot promise and struck like a wild fire, with persistence. His eyes would plead and his heart would thump. I could feel what he felt for me like the afternoon sun through a broken window. I followed him because drinking in sunlight was better than vodka and I wanted to feel my eyes dry and my cheeks flush again. I forgot that the Alaskan sun could set for months on end, only coming out for a brief moment before disappearing into a long darkness. I fought to remember what light tasted like but the winter beat us.
Life put me on a plane and down under, I found the southern sun could jump-start a brittle heart. I met my second love by a fountain at half past twelve on a Wednesday afternoon. Disarming in his gaze, I could hear love coming, a lilt in his voice and something in his tone that repeated four words over and over again: “Come here, beside me.” I was his drug and he was mine. Anti-anxiety, anti-depression, anti-homesickness. More, faster, faster, more, now, please, don’t stop, how did we get here? We tried to save one another but on the plane from here to him, they even told me to save myself before attempting to save others. I wish I had remembered. We ended up talking faster and in the scramble to explain ourselves, stopped listening to the other. When I said goodbye to him at the terminal, I truly believed that loving him would be my redemption. We only had one another in sickness, never in health. I’ll always owe him that.
But I stumbled along and found you.
Do not mistake me. I did not and do not love you: A wolf in sheep’s clothing. You lied to yourself and to me. A boy playing at a man’s life— you could barely distinguish your wants from society’s “needs.” It frightens me how little someone can know themselves but I am not a spiteful person. I do not wish you ill. I just know that you’ll stumble across this regret of letting me go like one does on a cracked sidewalk— you will not see it coming and it will be short but sharp and it will knock you on your face.—Loving. And You. — breathless
I’m not afraid to fall in love, I’m just afraid of hitting the ground when its over.
You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.
I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.
—Kuba Wojewodzki, Polish journalist and comedian
Just be honest with me or stay away from me. It’s not that difficult.
Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.
in omnia paratus.
one day I will
At some point it doesn’t matter who was right and who was wrong. At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it.
—Jonathan Tropper, This Is Where I Leave You
I got lost in him, and it was the kind of lost that’s exactly like being found.
I didn’t realize how badly I was treated until someone started treating me with respect.
Describe me in one word anonymously.