Sometimes, you realise things it’s best not to know: a church upbringing is responsible for disappointment thick like missing filling Oreos, and dreams aren’t prophetic however much you hope. There’s more, sure, but lists are fun when it’s who’s fuckable, or which lips you’d kiss if you had to, and whose body you’d trade like Pogs or MTG.
A lot of these realisings happen at night once you sign off with goodbye or no and you nightlight stare, wonder which episode of the season this is equivalent to? The shaky first one, or smack in the middle when nothing happens, is pretty much filler, a bottle.
I realise you but don’t want to. Get that? I don’t want to. I can’t text book digest or essay write, or I could and that’s the problem. Being grown ups sucks. Time to lose brain cells, choose which knowledge to shrink like rice in the microwave, drying the water out you just cooked into there. Head on a stick.
Playing the long game is like watching Lost, following the career of a stalwart, finding they died already.
And what if, years later, a wrong unchangeable move haunts shopping trips, and my overdrive mind works out an alternative method the math’s test didn’t suggest?
Maybe, if I was kinder and you weren’t crazy and we’d met at an instead age we wouldn’t be strangers online and off.
I estrange you, fish reel in empty lines, avoid you in the Sainsbury’s doorway and my high school friends all ra-ra-ra, smug in their youth group leaders.
Your baggage is my double full stop, P60, Breaking Dawn Part 2.
I’m going to pick a moment to live and it won’t be expected like a birthday, holiday, landmark like moving, or breaking someone’s stare. A mother’s meal, dad’s advice, hospital break out or work-up purchase. An achievement medal-worthy, wedding or chip-eating-cemetery sitting with Jack, John, Paul.
Instead I pick this long forgotten kiss which both parties remember on technicality: the jukebox mechanism, toilet lock, soaked beer mats. And in hindsight it’s a regraded movie, re-reviewed a decade later by sit-through-movie-goers who toy with their “leave any time clause.” And they’d always rather stay than leave and never know. Conclusivity is better, whatever it sheds. Usually just carrot grated boredom.
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.
You might think an interview process with ex-girlfriends and current ones would be easy and sticky like napkin-less takeaways you eat walking. They whisper when you leave rooms and you know this because they do it when you come back in, too. And you use verbal placation, the same sentences appropriate for both people, because although those you date are different, have dated yearly, for weeks or just days, they have essential commonalities, understand each tone of you, hear it right down to the cages of ribs and the swellings of organs which shouldn’t swell and you should see a doctor for. Things which swell aren’t always euphemisms. But you don’t see doctors, and you enter into situations such as this, a girlfriend and an old one and a low spoke tension and physical lies and an unclenchable feeling that some times shouldn’t collide and timelines aren’t reversible and you wouldn’t be a traveller if it meant reliving anything because why date up when you can date down, in age, anyway. And the thrill of each ending was a story you wanted to tell, irregardless of notches, numbered on wood, before you’re dead, or after it. They’ll talk then. They’ll talk then. They talk right now.
I make you half-filled cups, in which the water barely soaks the bags I dip, and these are each nondescript flavours and you take deeper swigs than you’d need to if I brim-filled it, knew what I was doing, except I do, and the purposeful pour is control I execute over us like the lies which are list-worthy, committed to memory, in fact penetrable, confession ready, hell-takers, tie-breakers. In fact, if this is a tie, this one year, a little more, a TV time three-year fuck-up, then my rosary beads will fucking burn the scars on your feet until the on-top scars cover ones the other girls left, the girls who are women now because it’s so long since they got paid off with babies they didn’t have but did but you don’t know if they did but they did. You are so much older than me.
I watch the clip looped because, involved in it, when you’re inside of somebody’s mouth like this, the impact of the essence of the spectacle of it is unexperienceable, and the fumble-ability of your lips clicking and the lunch you taste on his teeth, food caught in, isn’t the viewers’ angle. Ultimately, is it better to spectate this sort of event, activities close-up and skin under?
He comes back and this happens in real life too but I can’t state enough the awkwardness of a break up reunion in the middle of a people-laden street in a town in which you know everybody. Unless you’re an attention seeker, and something says Toby is, a statement maker, you’d want a kitchen sit down, a cup of coffee pepping to be ready for a replay of kisses you could almost forget except in rollercoaster dreams in which the movement is a well wrought seasickness, a sleep-talk or walker committed to the reality they’re tricked into. And Toby’s a trick. A come back trick. And in real life he’d have news like, “Pregnant,” and, “Girls,” and, “Dating,” and, “Prison.”
Once we were fists and clothes slip and urgent at every point. I waited to taste the optic chiasm in you.
Now we are note takers, plotting what we’d do to Tania and Tim and my script says, “Suck, suckle, spit,” and yours says, “Win”.
We’ll collude and when we can’t, when every excuse is an invitation to make a joke dirtier than the ones Tim attempted in high school, we’ll find other people to efface. Except, I really like effacing you.
I will take you unsafe places to see the corners of your eyes which, unexamined, are mistakes overlooked like A grades. We talked through every top set class because what’s less motivation than teachers saying you’re the best of the best of the best? I lost my potential like earring butterflies in swimming pools, clubs, toilet cubicles. Like best friends swapping in and out of favour, taking back gifts to bestow on another.