The first time I saw an adult penis I was so afraid, as soon as I got home, I googled “penises” to see if it was normal looking. It was.
Running, running, feeling free
Running, running, cry, breathe
I let friends keep me out until 3, now I’m awake, and they’re sleeping. Lying in bed, trying not to stir to rouse them, the world feels most silent, but there are birds pecking at the window. It’s the loneliest time: when you alone are in a state of consciousness, your consciousness a world of one, and all the fellows of your life are together, without you, in a most peaceful state.
This paradigm drives my adult relationships: each morning, someone plays the roused one, and someone plays the slumbering one. There’s nothing lonelier than waking up in a world of one, yet someone must wake up in a world of one.
“I don’t hate you, I love you,” I said comforting him in response to his jest, the sounds sliding off my lips before I even knew what words they would form. The flow was uninhabited, unplanned, unexpected.
In reaction to their sound, I giggled guiltily, a little girl reacting to the admission of dirty words. As the moment raced by, I looked up at the mirrored wall and caught the end of his laugh in his reflection.
I’m at my most vulnerable, standing alone, waiting for the train, reflecting on how my boyfriend doesn’t love me, searching for words to draw my feelings so that I can write an eloquent blog post so I can justify my disappointment with the production of art satisfying enough to balance the lack of love, and the most unrequited crush of my life is walking towards me.
His eyes are still sea blue. He still swaggers with a dumb, big lipped smile. And he’s wearing a predictable Burberry coat. He’s so shallow.
Heart is thumping. After all these years, it thumps still. Today, a little more lightly than the time before.
If only he could read my thoughts. My thoughts of unrequited love, then and now. Then again, he wouldn’t care to do so.
You know that if I died tomorrow, you’d be standing at my funeral, knowing that you’d never told me that you’d loved me. I think like that a lot. I don’t think you do.
I was trying to be thoughtful. I like to do so with surprises. I purchased him a gift, a subscription to his favorite weekly magazine, just because I knew he liked it and just because I knew he never would subscribe.
One hundred dollars spent just because. Or maybe spent just because I like a man who reads. Or maybe spent just because I like a man who shares his knowledge of the world with me. Or maybe spent just because I like his vast vocabulary, and I like his word choice creativity and spent just because I want to nourish his mind with high brow print.
Social media cheapened my gift, my thoughtfulness, and me with a $6 promotional offer targeted directly to the man at the address I had just subscribed. Why, oh why! Come on, Facebook! Give me a break!
“It’s the thought that counts” are words people often say when good intentions are received imperfectly. My thought was intercepted by the computers; next, my thought’s context interpreted as a cheap opportunity seized instead of as a generous funding of intellect.
The computers came and plundered; they robbed the air of luxury from my gift; they robbed the air of surprise from my thought.