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.

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Gut

Our love, if that’s what it was and we said that it was but I’ve found words to be take-back-able the next day or on the phone later the same day as saying them, was a snippet, compilation tape, best of, highlights, skipping terrible bits. But I remember them.

You told me to be sure but I never have been and I’ve eked out over-time in your bedroom, at your computer desk, in the knowledge it was hot outside and we should be out in it but we’d rather be inside instead. And if I had a gut feeling, I had a hundred of them, and so few days off, and tellings off.

I got gut feelings and tried to start sparks like girls in movies using Brownie skills, igniting fires in backyards and campsites. But I couldn’t complete a sentence past a film recommends.

And the missing conversations ache less because they’re metres closer to a restart.

You Had Me At Meat Tornado

All planned words, preparation, is pointless, because you can’t pep your breath up in time, if breath’s ever used to woo anybody. I can’t forget Charlotte licking the back of her hand on the shop floor, telling us to test our breath out.

Some people couldn’t give a shit if there are gods or better ways to live or TV shows that change lives or antiperspirants with better smells, more functionality. Some of us are sick, don’t know it, and some will die before they can cut out the bits which stopped working for us, which never worked that well to begin with, if we’re feedback form filling, honest truth (unless there’s money in it) time.

I get you to send me home like a doctor would, get me to wait for your call (like a doctor would), examine the back of my throat (like a doctor might, depending on symptoms). Some things are symptomless.

And my patience runs out on the bus ride and I re-watch every Tom Cruise film I have which, honestly, isn’t enough, isn’t, couldn’t be, and who’d have thought? And when you ring with your decision, scripted answer, declaration, I start, “You had me at…” and I don’t finish. Because you had me at.

Skinny Love

I’ve been in love before. I survived on Pot Noodles and scratchy Sex and the City videos, some of which wouldn’t play, when David left, and when Ben quit I dropped 2 stone. It was the simplest weight loss ever apart from, you know.

And I hope you don’t go but if you do I’ll be fine. I’ve measured the lengths for ‘getting over’, and ‘rebounds’ and ‘flings’ I’ll try and I’ll do if it means you’ll get grainy like a badly pirated copy of a cinema release or a shop copy of a book I could’ve bought new from Amazon and I’d really savour the wearing, absolute lack of wear.

Each time, I hope this love is it, and there have been about 5 true loves, 11 ‘ones’, and anyone that says they feel different to the last, they can really tell, they have certainty, knowledge, they’ve seen, I say, “Shit,” because no such thing, there’s no such thing, and I’d only ever say that in the bed of Brad Pitt, and then I’d be stop-gapping it.