I can't stop thinking about your pretty face. Your unbelievably blue eyes. I've seen blue eyes before. Usually they freak me out. They're like ice, or they pierce. It's almost painful to look to look at. But your eyes are warm. Its like you're hugging me when you look directly at me. And I am enthralled by your embrace. I spent an hour and a half stealing glances at your butt. Petting your whole body, stroking your skin, reveling in your softness and your strength. Also you just have a really cute butt. And you're short enough for me to love! Short enough that I can press my body against yours and not stand on tiptoes or crank my neck to kiss you. My lover, my life, my darling, what the hell are you doing alone. There's no way in hell. You are not alone. So there's something under the table you're not telling anybody else, or you're really so fucking busy that you haven't made time in the past who knows how many years to find a woman. Even though there's a score of young women who admire you. And there's no way in hell that I could stand out (positively) among them, except that I would love your son as my own. I'm not pretty. I'm aware of that. I'm not an athelete. I'm not smarter than you, I don't know so much about my own field that I could really teach you anything you don't already know that you would actually want to know.
All I know is that we have the same thoughts about God, that my life is better with you in it, that I love you and I love your boy and even if on paper based on attributes I'm at the bottom of your list of potential courtiers, that has to count for something. Deep emotional devotion, not in the way that weakens me and makes me dependent, but empowers me and makes me a fucking mother bear if someone gets between me and your cub. Because he's my cub too and I will fucking rip the entrails out of anyone who tries to hurt him with my teeth. I am that violently protective of you and yours, if only you would be mine, let yours be mine. Fuck everyone else. Fuck my family. Mine are the kind that, if they kept talking to me at all, would spend every coversational moment questioning my happiness and underhandedly suggesting I would be happier with someone young and handsome. Because that's what they fucking care about. Pretty. Even though I'm not so why they would even contribute agh. Irrelevant. Which was my point in the first place.
You wouldn't be spending Easter by yourself. You wouldn't be coming home right after work to pick up your kid after he's been waiting at school for two, three hours just to go straight home and make dinner, help him with his homework, and have fun until you have to stay up until 2am every night be both a good professional and a good father. I can help you. I want to help you. I want to be his friend. I want to drive him to karate practice, and make dinner so that its ready when you get home. I want to streamline your life so that you're not on the phone every day figuring out who's gonna watch your kid from when to when. Or maybe I just want to be one of the people on the other end of the line. I want to be your go-to, your problem-solver, your what-would-I-do-without-you. I want to be the reason your kid gets two spend an extra half-hour with you out on the water every day, instead of waiting for you to finish making dinner. I want to be the reason you can go to every event you're invited to, that you want to go to. I want to be the reason you get enough sleep, and your constant jovialty is not quite as forced on those days. I love you, I'm ready to listen to you bitch about all the people who have a royal stick up their butt and need to take a chill pill. Like us.
1963. 1991. Big fucking difference, in a human lifespan. But in the evolution of human consciousness, not even a blip. We are sewn from the same fiber. I try to see the universe through your eyes, and it fascinates me. But its not so hard for me because I think we have the same vision; your's just has a broader picture and better focus. I yearn for your clarity, your circumscience. Yes I made that up. The cross between circumspection and omniscience. Don't laugh at me. Yes I read that out loud in my head too. Shut up.
I only wish that I knew what you were thinking. You treat everyone as well as you treat me, with that depth of personal investment and concern. How could I possibly know if I was special. I know how important your son is to you. And I know how I found out. I saw that you took on the role of the mother while acting like a father. You kept track of him. Distant fathers don't constantly know where their kid is, the way you did. Only attentive parents that are always on "where's the kid" duty have behavioral circuits like that. And so I knew he was big in your life. But I will never warrant a display of behavior like that which discerns from all the other fawners. Not because I couldn't be that special, but simply because I'm twenty, I can take care of myself; such focused concern wouldn't be appropriate, except in a situation in which all my friends would be that concerned. And I hope never to go back to that place. Despite the fact that very few people knew I was there. And even the people who knew, were never really worried. And I guess me writing this proves that they didn't have to be. But not having done it and not being at risk... it's going to take a lot of statistics to show that those two are the same thing. I carry my diary on my skin. I will not forget what I did to myself. And I'm okay with that. It's simply apart of my body now.
But I don't want you to know that. You'll see the scars, of course. You may or may not ask. My truest soul mate would rub his thumb over them and kiss me very tenderly, to show me that he knows they are there, he doesn't need to know what happened, and he loves me. Of course this man does not exist. But he looks and thinks a hell of lot like you. Except that you will probably ask, or tsk me in your head and not emote anything at all, and avoid the conversation. It really depends on how you see me; a malleable child, an inflexible adult? a self-pitying cesspool, a soul to be saved? I have to admit I don't know you nearly as well as I want to. And you hardly know me at all. But that's not because I'm a stalker. Let's admit it. If I had to stand in front of you talking for an hour and half straight multiple times a week, you'd learn a lot about me too, and may not ever be talking about me. Although you volunteer a disturbing amount of information about yourself. I doubt your blissfully ignorant of your fanbase, which me leads to me to wonder if you're knowingly encouraging stalkers. I guess its possible that you don't realize your own charisma. But you'd have to be daft. And no one that daft is that charismatic.
I love you, and I'm more scared of others loving you than you not loving me. I can prove myself on the competitive basis of familiar bond, if only I do not have a competitor on that platform. Because chances are, if there's another willing to be that dedicated to you and your family, they're also more attractive than me. And thats just numbers.
I will probably never fight for this. We will part ways without ever having said a final goodbye, more like a "see you later" to never be seen again. I will hold myself back until there's no longer context for it, and move on. With absence the force of the feeling will fade, but the affection will not be gone, and I will think of you fondly, and perhaps often. I still often think of the love I never had, whom I've heard hide nor hair of in five years. And I'm not old enough for that to be a short time. That was beautiful. But for another time. Tonight is your time.
Except now I'm derailed. I feel like proper respects is owed to the love I never kissed. I've been infatuated with many but this is the one that stuck. I feel like you'll be the only other one to recess in my daydreams. At least for this decade.
No comments:
Post a Comment