I’ll Take Us Right Through From Sunrise To Sunset

I want to hate like a magazine misquote. The ingrained, un-heal-able stitch hate, there’s always a reminder of. I thought that’s what this was.

Lily Allen can’t win: offending somebody somewhere whatever it is she says and for every person saying I have a sound mind, all see-through Heisenberg blue, ten tell me I don’t and I’m not and what the fuck am I actually thinking?

Total privilege of being understood. How much I’d pay for, biscuit packets. I’m glad you don’t roll cigarettes, though it’s better than licking envelopes. The gum’s not gluten-free, you know? And neither’s my shower gel.

Domestication’s the death of me for un-obvious reasons. Because looking at you like this, is, insert adjectives here. Shit, I think all of them.

__________. ____________. ______________. ❤

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When You’re Concentrating

Don’t try too hard, or do, but don’t give advice before you know, and you’ll not know when you know because there’s no graduation ceremony, and the age gap pops like a DVD case that someone else owned first, and the skin on skin is something electric, and you can’t help the thoughts, that own age is two the same, and this is alternative, and you’ve reached to outer space since Signs which was after Sixth Sense and you’d embrace another reality if it opened like a set of soundless bead curtains, and you wish you could cup every lost year and live through his time because you’ve missed so much, and what’s left isn’t enough somehow, because eleven years gone, he’s got eleven years more, and every word you say’s a word he’s said and you’ll not match and how much longer will clashing be in fashion? The hairdresser said dip-dye’s not popular like it was in 2009, and 11, and eleven is a prince, is a Jack, is almost.

Masks

Once, we were a behind doors, key under mat, two coffee cups for no reason couple. Now, I pull your mask down because your eyes are not enough and I take mine off because it made my nose look huge and that’s a good way to hide, win Oscars, or even be nominated, but I’m more into you than that. Accolades are for past lives.

In past lives we were at this point but perhaps I was younger than you are and you were more compromised than I am and you made the same choices as I have.

I don’t want to regress, find some spiritualist who can tell us what happened to us. I want to uncover it, marry it, decipher. The Da Vinci Code’s a fucking good read. I am not a completist, or someone who thinks inaccuracies make for bad stories. I would lie and lie and lie for you. I would write a book for you, talk copious amounts for shit for you. Hell, I’ll cook for you, if you really have the stomach.

But now, just now, I want to know what you look like without a mask on. Costumes are for bedrooms and you are for me as Angelina is to _____.

Penn Badgley

You know what turns you off when you see it. Before that, the delicious unknown swirl, the way his hair sticks to his head nonchalantly, like it’s better not to wash now, will make you heady, and you’ll sleep with your stomach elevated, your aesophagus threatening to slide right out of your mouth.

You remember what dating without talking was like – like a movie – and the familiarity of films, which makes you remember sidewalks and stores you’ve never been to, means you hanker for other, simpler men, who haven’t an opinion on Damien Hirst, don’t know who Tracey Emin is.

His fault wasn’t trying, writing, dressing, kissing, wasn’t what he said the first morning or what he’ll say the last. Some renovations you can’t make. The sheer energy in wood-sanding, carpet stapling is a full time job, and your career goals of princess, pop star, don’t leave room for almost men, slight ones, men growing their hair to pretend they’re Jeff Buckley, the sort of extinguishable genius that knowing is like touching a Ouija board. You saw The Exorcist when you were fifteen and have waited for transformation since.

What You Want How You Want

You couldn’t guess your wife’s name before you met her and now you know it, since you married, you wish you could forget, know that moments clasping the air for words are full of hope whereas this, well, isn’t.

You couldn’t agree on kids, didn’t discuss god, aren’t exactly sure what TV the other watches (you think Dawson’s Creek is a place people go like the Grand Canyon, Palm Springs), don’t know if you ever read the same book – at school or for the hell of it. You don’t know if she ever does things for the hell of  it; the regime at your address is an alarm set, a clock flashing.

She wakes before you, and the first few moments, eyes open, she watches your crows’ feet twitch. In the shower, she cancer-checks her breasts as seductively as possible. She thinks about Gemma, Tim. Follows alternate paths she could’ve taken: kissing Paula, fucking Paul.

She’s one thing you can’t fix. She doesn’t want fixing and the fact you’re inclined to try is your fault, a fault of yours, an eternal error. You couldn’t cup her in your palms how you could cake and you can’t pull that ring off without pinning her down, which always ends in police. Your mistakes your mistakes your mistakes are dialogue.

Is This Like That Movie ‘A Walk to Remember’?

People judge. Your congregation think they have an obligation to help you make right decisions, to regret wrong ones, to tell you which are the right and which are the wrong ones, because short-sightedness is not just a medical term. It seeps like badly fixed sinks or cheap bin bags, letting moisture through until your life’s wet and you’ve ticked wrong boxes on multiple choice tests, you’ve married people in error.

But this is not an error. At least, I hope that it’s not. I might be wearing a football jersey and you a high-street dress with the tags left in in case you need to return it, supposing no-one spills drinks over you (this is a party), but I chose what I chose because you bought it. Jack asks, “Why do you need to surprise people? Why are you trying to shock us?” But this isn’t a shock for us and it shouldn’t be for you, if you’d been paying attention. Some things you can calculate like a comet’s orbit or inflation. And you should’ve guessed this.

Twice

Not intentional. Not nearly. Almost always not.

You don’t know what to do with tarragon. Could make an incision in a man’s brain to see his decision making. Reshape people’s faces for a living.

Say you’ll wait ’til after, so you’ve eaten the steak, paella, lasagne. But you blurt it out like an answer in class, put on the spot by a teacher sure you don’t know answers. But you know some, knew some.

Wish everyone understood action’s aren’t meaningful, defy definitions, and the clean cut life they’re all after is a thing of the past, the fifties, and even then, most times, was a lie: case in point, Betty Draper.

Better Than You Were Before

Stop fucking with me. Either age gaps matter or they don’t. Have you pumped somebody’s stomach once they’ve drunk a vat of vodka, crushed a tablet into it? Wouldn’t think you’d have to, that the body knows what to digest and what it should eliminate immediately. But not always. We don’t make decisions with precision like uniformed bodies, funders, parents, best friends with best friend necklaces.

I’ve compiled clips, mostly in my head, but some committed to film, my iPhone, the webcam running on my computer when you don’t know, and what I can’t figure is, why you left last time? You said you weren’t ready for kids, commitment, but you never had a shirt fit you like I do, or a shoe. I buckle to bad heels, leave room for bunions, am in tune to insteps, the requirements of insoles: I’ll work on your posture if you want me to. I want to.

So stop fucking with me. Age gaps matter, don’t. I’ve pumped stomachs, felt my way around them with a finger, sewn tears up, kept a heart beating with hands. I’m all for matching jewellery or have you forgotten the offer I made with Jack in the picture, when Alex was there? I’ll never stop asking. Forget who I slept with between, it’s not a calendar. Forget the break-up dates, arguments in waiting rooms. Remember which song was playing.

Interaction/Utterances

One day I’ll understand why I did it, reverted to the life I had, pretended I’d wanted it, that there weren’t pieces of me previously – my shirt buttons, shoes, elastic and stitching – that were all after you, ready to pinch you, shrink you in hot washes, seal you in packets and watch your breath collect as condensation in droplets at the bottom of bags. You made me forget the world ended as it ended around us and I never called your authority or questioned you having it and we didn’t need escape plans: I practiced balance with my yoga daily and I stretched you out on sleeping bags as my child slept and you said you’d play a part, you’d be a person I might need and you’d touch me when I asked and you’d have a flashlight handy and you’d walk me in the middle of the night when I needed a piss and you’d hold my unwashed hand on the way back, ready to own every inch as god watched. You’re dead now.

There’s Something You Should Know About Me

I won’t waver. Change, you sense like strangers’ star signs, like the contents of meals in restaurants, spice slipped.

Once, we got drunk together. We forget it happened, won’t mention imprints the other left.

I’ve been alone, often, and in six years you’re the only. In bed your legs look like Alicia Silverstone’s on the cover of Clueless and don’t just say that’s a viewpoint. I’ve seen you standing up too.

I like your back best, shirts skimming shoulder bones, unkempt weight. We’re not even programmed to remember what we’ve seen most, necessarily. I worked at Subway for six years and all that’s left is the smell, lingering in pits of cotton.

I watch my trailer door, even when you’re not coming. I want you to come, believe I’m not the 2006 version. That was years and so much has changed, that I know you feel in contours, cards. I’ve read your blog. And if James Van Der Beek’s due a revival, why not me?