I’ve shortened your name down to a single letter, maybe in hopes to make you a little less real. J, you shouldn’t matter anymore. And yet there you are, seeping into my thoughts. As much as your memories are a safe place for me - “maybe I’m changing things with you” - the safety really lies in your nonexistence.
I write about you as if you don’t exist, because it’s better that way. If you only exist in my mind, you can’t make the same mistakes as everyone that came before you - and oh, how people make mistakes.
You were supposed to be the idea of perfection, the most singularly beautiful person in the world, and I do suppose you were that for a while.
I remember losing my fingers in your hair, and the way you reacted with pleasure to that. I remember hugging you tight from behind as you washed the dishes that we had used to bake with. I remember the way you looked at me for a moment, and told me my exact emotion. I remember the way the string of lights lit your apartment, the way you lit the candle on both of those nights, the way the mood music disappeared completely as I was just wrapped up in you.
Things are supposed to be different now.
Oh, J, just leave me alone.
i love the way you look at me as if we haven’t fucked before, so full of innocence, because really, we haven’t been together long, and we still have yet to figure out all the intricacies of each other.
i love the way you look at me as if you’re ready to tear my clothes off and have your way with me - and that’s how i like it, and you know that. you remember the way my body feels against yours, the way we fit together perfectly, somehow.
i love the way you look at me as if you see something else in my eyes, in my heart. you stare into me and see some part of me that i never thought would surface, and i can’t thank you enough.
i love the way you look at me as if we’ve known each other all our lives, and we might as well have.
i walked through a tunnel today
An excess of five-hundred people had gathered today for an event where one really didn’t have to talk to anyone else. It was a gathering of people who shared a mostly-solitary hobby, and not everyone really knew how to talk to anyone else. It’s still that kind of community where everyone enjoys everyone else - stories are shared, and people part awkwardly at the end, promising to get together again, but not necessarily meaning it.
I had forgotten my flashlight.
The tunnel is nearly one-hundred years old now, on each end bearing the inscription, in all caps: SNOQUALMIE TUNNEL 1912-1914. The words, soft, almost faded, seemed to provide the only sincere air within the area.
It’s fifty-some degrees in there, year round, a light breeze ever present, more prominent when travelling eastward. Though it is the middle of the summer (and though summer really means nothing here), everyone donned some outer layer that wouldn’t be present under other circumstances.
Over two miles of tunnel, I stared down, then. It was the kind of tunnel where, when one got to a certain point, one would not be able to see light in any direction. And there was no light to be had; I had forgotten my flashlight. Luckily, there were a few hundred people in the area, most of them much more prepared than I.
A single bracelet glowstick was grasped in my hand in hopes to keep myself safe from the passing bikers.
I had forgotten my flashlight.
The dark had surrounded me. I couldn’t know where my foot would land next, my posture awkward and overcompensating. When the light from someone else shone in my line of vision, it felt almost as if the tunnel was crashing in on me. The air was moist. Water dripped from the ceiling, offering those who stood inside small showers.
It was perfection, in an odd sort of way, and for just a moment, I was glad that I had forgotten my flashlight.
I remember the days when it was so easy to write. The way that words would pour from my fingers, or the point of a pen, oh, it was magical.
It has been over a month. Words elude me now. But at least, at the very least, I am happy. Is that the trade-off I must make?