Thursday, April 26, 2012

Little Nothings.

sometimes i write, and have honestly nothing to do with it. so i'll put it here.

“I was in love with you once,” you mention to me; “for seven whole minutes,” you say. “No more, no less?” I inquire. “More, yes. Less, no.” You begin a tangent. A series of words made up of feelings of enamor. “I loved your smile. The way your hands always danced by your mouth. The way you laughed—pure and simple. It was all so beautiful, and then you turned to me to leave and your hand rested gently on my arm for eight seconds and you looked at me so brazen and soft, I thought my heart would explode. And from your lips you withdrew a heartfelt “goodbye”, and then you were gone. And my heart was broken and aching and I wanted you to still be there with me. I half expected you to pop up around the corner and tell me that you couldn’t leave. That you needed to stay. But that never happened. And after two minutes, I forgot that you’d even been there. And the next time we met, I was indifferent , and I could tell it made you sad. And I would have felt guilt, but our seven minutes were over and had been ill-spent. And I was sitting there thinking about some other beauty that I was enamored with and you were left alone with the question of, “how could I have done it differently?” and that was it. We had had our love. A stout seven minutes with little to show from it, but that’s love sometimes.” I just sat there. I sat there thinking, “What could I have said to you?” I found myself revisiting that short lapse of time over and over and over again in my brain, and I never get an answer that feels right. Then I say, “We were unlucky in our love. For you found me irresistible to you for only seven short minutes but I have felt how I do for upwards of a year. And there were so many times that I wanted to tell you that you made my heart spin and my hands shake and my feet float two feet off the ground, but I never did. Because of fear. Fear of the unrequited affection. Fear of our fate. Fear of having different fates individually. You were beautiful and I was sub-par. Girls fall for you, and boys fall for girls who are the opposite of me. I wish things could have gone differently,” and then I pause, unsure of where my next words will take me, but you chime in, “I was in love with your wishful thinking. Your daydreaming. The way your mind never stops going at its thousand thoughts a minute speed. You are always wondering how the outcome could have come out differently, and you get so caught up with your ideologies that you are left with disappointed hopes and dreams and you leave behind all the good you have.” And it strikes me that no person has ever been this honest with me. No one has ever read my brain like that. I couldn’t make sense of imaginings that I had. That I’d always had and always would have. But you put it to words. “You really were in love with me, weren’t you?” I pose less as a question, and more as a statement. “I believe I really was. And I would apologize for it only being for 420 whole seconds, but sometimes love is as short as that; and there’s nothing any of us can do to change that.” And there we were. You, who had once loved me for less than a sixth of an hour, and me, who loved you more with each and every breath that you breathed.


leave here your rhymes and reasons, ladies and gents.