Taken Time

Something will move you more than the movie Titanic and you’ll be unprepared as you were then: only hoodie sleeves and the cheapest mascara, pocket money bought, smudged like cartridge pen ink.

Now, you’ve a between takes make-up artist fixing marks left by an emotional on camera quell, and you explain a resonate, a simple get, but any resonance owes a month’s before performer who only knows what the thing was first place about. And Adele is anyone’s guess.20120923-233110.jpg

I Am Small

If I could explanation-make every time we moved rooms I’d be a scriptwriter instead of student procrastinator and goals would be as defined coffee orders; a slight syrup switch doesn’t alter the texture enough to produce an entirely different taste but cups are identity ready and I’ve ordered Tall since I had pocket money, and I never tried decaf.

So I will let slide the joins making sense of our dialogue, which, currently absent, see us turn up land-markedly unexpectedly. But the kisses keep tight and no tongue.

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I’m Clinging

Sometimes, disappoint was adamant and the refusal of dinner expected and I could understand it. I didn’t know Beyoncé, wasn’t the Michelle they thought I’d be, and my misnaming was someone’s fault entirely, although I cultivate blame between breakfast and finishing it, and there’s a list of the unforgives and one of the almosts and I didn’t live through the nineties to end at a laundry sort of a situation which has me ironing underwear and bedsheets, things which don’t need ironing, basically.

And the break is a crooked kind of a garden ornament in someone’s decorative yard and it’s accidental apart from the affair which is only a half of an affair because watching and words are nothing, like, literally, nothing, and if you could handle the evaporation, the way days are forgetable minutes into the next, then there’s not a reason we can’t be us. Let’s be us. Forget every finger-fuck which happened in head only.

Profile Picture

The internet’s a grown-up picture book except neither of us is grown up and his friends post whiskey bottles, not faces. And the drag back is the pristinity of his photographs. I plot the perfect reply and he says, “Nice hair,” but I didn’t do anything to it.

He asks why the fez and I lose the Doctor Who reference and he asks which one is me and I explain that the one girl/monkey combination should’ve given away but it didn’t or it did but sarcasm jaggedly translates and I’ll never know him, even if we meet which we won’t because there’s always more he could find out I wouldn’t want to hand to him, and the next says I seem fun and I ask how he knows and he says my expression is a cert and I say it was a moment and 99% of the time my face is a different contortion to this and he says let’s meet somewhere no-one will be and I say I don’t like walking and he laughs like I joke but I won’t go or come and no kind of chatroom coercion will work on me. I’m schooled. It’s 2012. Do you know how long we’ve had internet now? And what will our children do with it?

Holy Crap You’re Gorgeous

The papers have pictures of us but the ones on my phone, insured by your bank account, are precious like heirlooms I’m yet to inherit but the mere mention of them, the idea of an almost-get, is my brain tick before sleep, my morning nerve. And we’re a back-forth before we’re anything solid like a vow is solid and not just something someone says in a moment adjacent to ordering a hamburger.

We leave when sticky menus compromise manicures and I wouldn’t ask because periods don’t add up, of singleness, refinery, of the shoulds and who I am will never matter. In 2050 I’ll be a nice chest your grandmother once fantasised for and about when she was your age, when she was a little bit older than you.

Mononymous

You’d dreamed of a two-named girl, or maybe even three, and over-looking this lacking was difficult as ignoring cross-eyes, hairlines, orthopedic shoes but, at least, those you could understand.

I text that, “It’s not a choice exactly,” and you say you’re confused but you say you’re confused mid-point any argument I swear just to rile and I reply, “One name,” and that sets then starts you.

“You’re not a fucking mononymous celebrity. Don’t sell records on it. Never wrote a thing that warranted the marketing possibilities of it. Your name’s too common and your face, not photographable, and your weight, probably an issue.”

I thought it’d work because so many men are intent on their name evapourating yours. Someone once broke up with me because I said I’d never take theirs, and that was unromantic, apparently. But I’m the most hopeful of everyone, except Mary Magdalene.

Holding All The Fines

You’ll be accustomed to the distance by the time you read this, sure long distance can work and you’ll read advice guides to check and statistics will be frenemies you’ll use, disavow, depending on their findings, and you’ll want to prove normalities wrong. Each month will be an advent calendar kind of a wait but each chocolate will be self-bought and not reward but consolation for the fact you can’t do to each other what the people on TV do because the miles between, you couldn’t spit across them.

When you realise, temporarily the distance can work, you’ll wish that plotting was a strong point of yours, that you could throw a spell, or hire an assistant to make the transition simpler. Instead, you’ll dwindle until you’re not sure you love what you love or why you loved it, and what made the motorways matter, the train fares inconsequential in the first place. You’ll add to your list, ‘Close to my door,’ and wish that every man that you picked moved next door first so your father could vet them.

Eventually, all you’ll be accustomed to is a phone vibrating at the most sexless of times, a tease with a message like 😦 eliminating libido like there was some, and you hadn’t read an article on the pros of asexuality and the absolute commonality of it. Prevalence.

What I Am To You Is Not Real

I’m sure, at home, you’re the nicest of men, and you meet responsibilities straight on in the stickiest of fashions, like jammed bread on a linoleum floor. I could bet that you do. I lose almost all bets though, betting which characters die or who wins singing competitions, like I have impeccable tact, could pick a girl by her shampoo out of a crowd and make her Blake Lively. Actually, my knowledge base makes for a mediocre CV and I could blame Isle of Wight careers’ advisers or the religious persuasion of schools I went to when I didn’t know who George Clooney was, but I made each decision, and the only problem was impressing, in the people I tried to impress with each application.

So, against you, in a bathroom, or close the way contestants are, lit un-make-upped, in your category, houses or on tour, I wouldn’t want approval, because I have fathers for that and ex-boyfriends who keep in touch with up-to-date moral codes and thin disguises, but I know when a book’s not a book but a prerogative. And you, you nice home man, are diabolic.

And when you find yourself saying, “Confidence is your only problem,” wonder if you ever knew how not to be confident, if you ever felt how it is to hold convictions lighter than plastic bags in movies which won awards but actually, commented on time as it passed, and now, its trademarked stars are good for reunions and sequels and album titles, but not quite the singularity once anticipated of them. And you, also, stand example of a time in which we wanted only the forgiveness of a person completely inept at giving it, in public.

Rootless

I’m going to teach my daughter, if I’m one of those women who has daughters and not just cutlery on which to polish and dote, not to get hair extensions. I won’t be a dictator but some things are important to pass on, like who not to fuck, and who to fuck, and who to really consider fucking, but don’t feel bad if it’s like a no.

I’m going to teach her about the word no and all the uses of it and that a panel of people saying no to her might be a distinct career point which changes minds and makes weight loss crucial and haircuts climacteric, but it could be a verge of has-beens, a gene pool distilling of four. I don’t know who’ll judge those shows, which rely on minimum-wage desperation, which is plentiful here, in 2016, and I don’t know who’ll live then, or if an apocalypse comes ready to gut-fuck us, and in wait of a prevention/cure, we sip-blow Lemsip which will scorch but not quite wash down. If we don’t die, and she doesn’t, I’ll say, “Kid. I embarrassed myself on television. It’s a passage rite so rehearse your fucking lines. Go impress Gary Barlow. Kiss Tulisa Contosatvlos.”