Curt: A Series of One-Liners

I. To do with the littlest, brightest, most faithful people I know

One day I'm going to get you the biggest things, everything (and so much more) you want.

II. To do with wealth

I shall write a thesis on the effects of wealth one day – how it only leads to mountains and mountains of debt, and an ocean of a hole where my money should be.

III. To do with a very specific man

I'd love you, 'til a blackhole swallows this Earth and whisks us into a time away when I don't know you (and, surely, even then will I love you, and wait ever so patiently for you), so stupidly and fearlessly and so specifically, and even vaguely – all the ways you want to be loved, I'll do it, and I'll do it all for you, and maybe just a little bit for how I want to see your eyes on me, on me, on me: your attention, completely arrested, by me, and me, and me, for just a fraction of a second – a nonblink of your time, all mine, kept safely away in my pocket until that blackhole comes and sucks me in (again like all times) – hopefully back to the time when I could love you, and you'd look at me longer than it takes to look away.

IV. To do with the way I love you

I love you: lengthily, viciously, obsessively, frighteningly, maddeningly, hyperbolically – and most of all, truly. Very, very truly. All the lengthy, vicious, obsessive, frightening, maddening, hyperbolic types of truth – I love you in those ways, and an unintelligible amount more.

V. To do with a very specific violation to a very specific one-liner

I love you, quite obviously more than a sentence can handle.

You and Me: An Exaggeration

so i suppose i'll sit here in all my wishing, in all my needing to be praised
in all my bitterness,
in all my "wish we could've" and
"wish i could've" and "wish you could've"
and one
year
ago,
i met you

i didn't know it yet but you would wreck me

the world is changed

i. because you are made of ivory and gold

For all intents and purposes, you are beautiful, and you are fleeting.

ii. the curves of your lips

I want to reach inside your skin, and tug at your veins, and pull, and pull, until I have them wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet made of you. I want to choke you, only so I could tap the beats back into your pulse. It isn't selfish, it's dangerously beautiful. Lethal, and murderous, but it would be a gorgeous scene.

I am a chaser of beauty, and you are a human skyline. Your eyes are streetlights, your neck is a highway, your body is the world, and all its glitter, and all its grime. Your bones are piano keys that I want my fingers to pirouette on.

You are as singular as your fingerprints. Planets, and storybook characters, and strangers that last for seconds cannot hold a candle to you. You blink, and all the world goes dark.

You are the king of the anthills, and the real hills, and the fields beyond, and the forests, and the big cities that swallow you up, and all the clocks, and peacocks, and leather, and faux fur. King of spotlights, and flowy dresses, and well-written books, and meaningless art, and Taylor guitars, and accidental spill sunshine coffee-stains. King of Manolo Blahnik heels, and Hermes bags, and bright-light Greenbelt, little floral bags, and cardigans. King of sound, and light, and space, and mass, and elegance.

You astound astronauts, and philosophers, and scientists. Mathematicians cannot compute your dimensions, or understand the numbers of you, the physics of you, the geometry of you, the planes of you. You influence musicians with your silence. You astound models with only skin and bones. Artists and photographers can never quite catch

you, and the lines of you

iii. rewrite history

(I only have praise for you, and all the wrong words.)

-

The title of this post and the phrases in italics are from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

voix de un meurtrier

i try to grab onto your voice when i forget it, when it tries to slip out of my pocket. it does that sometimes. it isn't locked into my palm yet, like his and his and countless others, because you're a chameleon whose voicebox is his skin.

it's so easy to fall in love with you
because there are so many of you.

but the one i love most seems to hide behind all the others, seems to be the most hidden one, seems to be the voice i can't draw yet

oh, baby. i wish i could listen to you forever, i wish i could pinpoint where your voice would drop and when it would rise and how your lilt makes your mouth look

bet it makes your mouth look stunning, just stunning, if only i could place it

if only you'd let me.

CA 91311

And this is why I love it here:

It is the beaches, and the city, and the nature, and how this place turns my cumulus dreams into granite reality. Everything spills from my mind, my waterfall mind, and everything is mine and my pillow imagination. It is how everything is everything I've always dreamed about.

It is how everything is the same in different ways. It is the glamour and the size, the glitter and the only thirty dollars I have (spent on gifts for my best friends, miles and miles away), the everyday coffee that is never quite right and the clothes and plastic bags. Oh! so many clothes and plastic bags.

It is how I can read here, read and only read. It is the different worlds that spin and take turns inside the bones of where I think. It is how this place has put so many universes inside my mind.

It is how far I am from everyone I know and how close I am to everyone I am unfamiliar with. It is how here this is a different culture and different diction and different colored skin and lips and eyelids. It is how there is blonde here, that didn't have to turn blonde. It is how I bump shoulders with people I have nothing in common with, people who do not have my blood in their veins or my language on their tongues. It is how I am different here and yet the same, for we are all melting under the sun we share with the world. It is how I've managed to push myself inside a crowd that takes me in, that absorbs me, like a sponge.

It is how close I am to the music I love and the movies I adore and the musicians and actors and actresses I look at with different eyes. It is how close I am to seeing my favorite things before my eyes, my favorite people right beside me. Them, and all their bones and all the blood that swishes in their bodies, and their voices that I am too familiar with except with no microphone and no speakers. It is how much it could've been real and natural. It is how this place makes them real and not just people I have to look at through a screen.

It is how the sun sets here too late, and so everyone is awake when the sun is awake, and sleeping is a hard thing to do when the city I rest my head upon is alive with the stars and there is still too many things to do.

It is how the stopwatch is so cruel. It is how it ticks too loud. It is how it will only be ticking for another couple hours before I am on an airplane, looking at lights from the clouds.

And once again I will be forced to live inside my head, my life confined to the cracks on my cranium, and my citrus dreams of summer in the beach, in the city, in the glamour, in the tiny living space, will once again be locked inside my little home, inside my little mind.

And that is why I wish tomorrow never comes, for I want more time to see my insides in the beautiful Californian sun.

andrew

it's the name less people know you by, it's a name reserved for the lovers of trivia and those most devoted to you. it's thread that contorts itself into the shape of "trouble" when it falls to the ground. it flies out of the mouths of few people, swims in the eyes of close to none. but it's always been your name. your second, but your name nonetheless.

a year ago i made my mind your home. my version of "you." my puzzle-pieced-up version of you. the only words that came out of your mouth were the only words i could hear you say. your vocabulary grew within months and i never knew everything. you were a quilt: comforting and covering and on top and warm and made out of patches of the small things my eyes have seen of you.

today my eyes are still seeing. new things and old things and things that might have never mattered had you not –

i will never know who you are, mon cher acteur, mon cher amour – or who you were, because that is more grammatically correct, given the situation we found ourselves in, but that has never been the way anything felt when it came to you.

some days you are still the most gorgeous, and still the first, because you were the first, and you were the start of a lot of things – but that place is not yours anymore, my dear. but your place is still your place no matter where it is, and that is in my heart. just like in licorice and sugar and gummy worms and gummy bears. just like in candy.

but my mind is not your home anymore. but you still have my heart. not all of it, but a part of this blood-pumping organ much like my clenched fist is yours.

i've been clenching my fists since you –

Aimes et Adores

But not really.

He's candy canes and snow (sometimes snowstorms) and sunshine. I've always called him sunshine. I've always seen him as sunshine. He's globes and fruits and footballs and bruises and thunder and helicopters. And lotion. He's – everything. Sadly. Thankfully. He's become everything. He became everything somewhere in the animation of flying calendars. Or maybe he was the pilot the flew the dates.

And you are something. You are not everything, you are something, and you are something special. You're not the couch, not the rug, not the walls, the ceilings, the lights. You're a smile, you're a tear, you're the stubble, you're your words, sometimes you're my words.

He isn't a ticked box and you're not crossed out on my checklist. He goes without saying and you are something new. You are something new.

All new things turn old. But I'm praying not you. I can't have two everythings because there's only one universe (despite what you might have experienced) but I don't have to choose. I'd choose him anyway. I'd always choose him.

But, oh, how I do I love you.