5.8.06
a story entirely about you
I am going to tell you a story entirely about you. You are the hardest person I could ever attempt to describe, and yet I still insist on writing about you. It only feels right. I have spent three weeks on this essay, trying to fully express the excitement and the amazement and the beauty and beauty and beauty, but I’ve just now come to the conclusion that I don’t need to. Excitement. Amazement. Beauty. There are some things that just are. Love. There are some things that just are. So please, listen to my story; it’s the one that’s entirely about you.
When we were young, you told me about yourself. You probably lied a bit. You said you liked emo rock and some rap. You said that you liked going to the beach to relax and watch the boys surf. I stopped surfing a while back and remember feeling a little disappointed when you said that. I never told you, though. You were also the only person to send me a picture of yourself that was actually “a bad picture of me.” And when I try to recover my steps, saying “no but, they weren’t bad pictures, you were just way better in real life!” I know you will just give me a “pshh,” and play with my guilt until we both come up smiling.
Sometimes I like to pretend that we’re twenty years older and have a comfortable apartment together; maybe even a roof we could sit and drink tea on while talking about our ever so exciting days at work. That would be nice. I think we would have a cat named James and a fish named Quincy; and once home from work, the cat and fish would greet us and meow at us and bubble at us, and we would lay together, just lay together, be boring together, just as we do now. We would be together, just as we are now. I used to dream about it in my sleep a lot. I will always hold on to those dreams.
Once, my sweatshirt held your scent. I was in my math class, half asleep, and all I could do was smile. I couldn’t pay attention. I didn’t want to pay attention. I didn’t really care. I like the way you smell. You don’t use any perfumes or fancy sprays or any other smelly fragrances. I like the way you smell.
I will never forget your eyes. They’re brown, like mine, but I like yours better. I like them best when we’re napping and laying together; when the music gently drapes itself over our huddled bodies. You always open them at the perfect time. I still get butterflies in my stomach. Maybe the next time we hug and hold each other and when our bodies are tight, you’ll be able to feel them and maybe I’ll be able to feel yours and they‘ll tickle us, each and every one of them, until we‘re so sleepy that we have to nap. And the best part is that your eyes would wake with mine, because they always open at the perfect time.
If I could describe you in two words, I don’t know if I would. If I could describe you with a million words, I don’t know if I would. I don’t think it would cut it. You are the hardest person I could ever attempt to describe, so I wrote about my most magnificent of dreams instead. This is who you are to me. Beauty. This is really who you are to me. Everything. There are some things that just are. Love. There are some things that just are.
a story entirely about you
I am going to tell you a story entirely about you. You are the hardest person I could ever attempt to describe, and yet I still insist on writing about you. It only feels right. I have spent three weeks on this essay, trying to fully express the excitement and the amazement and the beauty and beauty and beauty, but I’ve just now come to the conclusion that I don’t need to. Excitement. Amazement. Beauty. There are some things that just are. Love. There are some things that just are. So please, listen to my story; it’s the one that’s entirely about you.
When we were young, you told me about yourself. You probably lied a bit. You said you liked emo rock and some rap. You said that you liked going to the beach to relax and watch the boys surf. I stopped surfing a while back and remember feeling a little disappointed when you said that. I never told you, though. You were also the only person to send me a picture of yourself that was actually “a bad picture of me.” And when I try to recover my steps, saying “no but, they weren’t bad pictures, you were just way better in real life!” I know you will just give me a “pshh,” and play with my guilt until we both come up smiling.
Sometimes I like to pretend that we’re twenty years older and have a comfortable apartment together; maybe even a roof we could sit and drink tea on while talking about our ever so exciting days at work. That would be nice. I think we would have a cat named James and a fish named Quincy; and once home from work, the cat and fish would greet us and meow at us and bubble at us, and we would lay together, just lay together, be boring together, just as we do now. We would be together, just as we are now. I used to dream about it in my sleep a lot. I will always hold on to those dreams.
Once, my sweatshirt held your scent. I was in my math class, half asleep, and all I could do was smile. I couldn’t pay attention. I didn’t want to pay attention. I didn’t really care. I like the way you smell. You don’t use any perfumes or fancy sprays or any other smelly fragrances. I like the way you smell.
I will never forget your eyes. They’re brown, like mine, but I like yours better. I like them best when we’re napping and laying together; when the music gently drapes itself over our huddled bodies. You always open them at the perfect time. I still get butterflies in my stomach. Maybe the next time we hug and hold each other and when our bodies are tight, you’ll be able to feel them and maybe I’ll be able to feel yours and they‘ll tickle us, each and every one of them, until we‘re so sleepy that we have to nap. And the best part is that your eyes would wake with mine, because they always open at the perfect time.
If I could describe you in two words, I don’t know if I would. If I could describe you with a million words, I don’t know if I would. I don’t think it would cut it. You are the hardest person I could ever attempt to describe, so I wrote about my most magnificent of dreams instead. This is who you are to me. Beauty. This is really who you are to me. Everything. There are some things that just are. Love. There are some things that just are.
posted by Anthony at 4:11 AM
1 Comments:
I love you.
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