I’d almost forgotten what created my love of wine, luckily memories never escape me for too long. It was losing my virginity in your basement on Water Street, that’s when I learned to love wine. The silver moon made our skin look like the belly of a fish and you told me you loved me and I lied and said it back and we drank tons of wine to quell the innate emptiness that we’ve always kind of carried in our chests.

Advertisements

The raven haired Jewish boy, with bourbon brown eyes and celiac disease never quite evades my memory for too long. I remember in D’Amour, argyle socked, coffee in hand, peering into the Mac Lab at the boy that occupied a singular dream. Thus put me into a spiral of life changing events and even now, the taste of Southern Comfort tastes like you on that January night, where the snow didn’t cease until March and I felt more alive than I ever had. There was the night the power went out and I kissed you in the hallway at that party house, the dark cloaking my adultery. It was thrilling.

11/12/14

I was always a flame and that part of my life was carbon monoxide. I was slowly dying. A candle under a mason jar, waiting for the carbon monoxide to encompass me and snuff me out. I’m sorry.

It’s Sigur Ros and the glow of the city and the rooftop of my flat and rolled cigarettes. It’s the sound of a cello slowly breaking your heart with each chord. Sitting my the Thames, you eyes said more than you lips ever could.

My life is just a series of repeating events, merely testing geography. I have sublimely gorgeous moments with a person and then I leave and feel terribly and then I forever romanticize them, but I’ll never forgive myself for not loving them any longer.

And each time I love, it feels more diluted. And each time I hurt, it feels a lot lighter and I’m afraid that I’m slowly drifting to a point of average; I never want that. Is this what growing up is? Is everything less fantastical as an adult? Less intense? Why does that happen? I haven’t allowed myself for any disillusions, yet my emotions feel disillusioned. It’s like cocaine: nothing is as great or powerful as the first line, but the next few are still pretty great. Then you reach a point where they start to become less and less intense (while still great), however, they don’t leave you wanting more. They just leave you ready for bed, ready to start the next day.

Perhaps we are only given a certain amount of love we can feel. I know this is morbid, but bear with me, maybe we are only allotted a certain amount of romantic love. What if that’s a reality and if we expend it all too quickly, we are left with nothing. Could that be possible?  How can one love so many people while simultaneously love nothing?

Or maybe it’s a pendulum. One period of life, we feel everything all at once, and then it swings to feeling nothing. And sometimes we are in the middle of the pendulum swing where things feel lighter and less intense. This is the optimistic philosophy, because even though you feel nothing, you’ll know one day soon, you’ll swing back to feeling so much.

9/10/14

Toward the end, when the light was dim and everything felt rushed, there was this lingering tragedy about it. We wanted to stretch a minute for an hour. We wanted to wrap ourselves around each other and never let go. We wanted to be granted a forever. It became much more stoic. I wore sweaters because summer was ending and the Hoegaarden didn’t taste like leisure anymore, it tasted like sacrifice and longing and you were singing to me over and over and over again. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why life works the way it does, but please know that I’ll always love you and I’ll never stop missing you.