if i could put a blanket over the solar system, i hope that i’d find you

he says, i’m young and dumb. please don’t hate me: i love you.

six days. this must be some kind of record; usually it takes them a couple of weeks, maybe a month. i mean, yes, the night on the balcony was beautiful and intense, and the way our eyes hook into each other makes me squirm. yes, he fascinates me by asking me things like if you were standing by a lake and i was climbing a tree, and i jumped into the lake and splashed you, how would you react? and if i made you a dreamcatcher and broke it one morning after a nightmare, what would you do? and i say, i’d laugh, and that makes him smile. and i say, i’d be devastated, and he says that’s the most beautiful answer. yes, he stares at me and says, very matter-of-factly, you’re adorable and he likes that i call him out on shit, that he talks too much, when he says something grandiose. when i ask him what his funeral song is, he shrugs and says i’m never going to die.

he takes it back the next day, he says, i know i could never love you and i think, no need to be cruel, sparky, but seventeen sentences later he’s asking me to kiss him to shut him up and i’ve just skulled a glass of wine (because i’m turning 29 tomorrow) and i wouldn’t mind some gentle company.

my friends laugh at me and wonder how i pick these poets in bars, how i always pick the ridiculous ones, the one that make great stories. i smile because i know it’s because i rarely pick and if i do, there’s got to be something special there.

six days and he’s had a meltdown and he’s loved me and taken it back and i’ve got nothing but respect for his intensity, for his sensitivity, but i delight in being free and i like that i can enjoy this, him, anyone, without fear because i am so fucking unavailable. my heart is no-man’s land, it’s nothing, not whole, not broken, not mine, not someone else’s.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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