Sep 2015
a work in progress.
A year ago, I could’ve sworn that I loved a boy so much I would do anything for him. Today, I’m not sure I have ever loved anyone at all, and if it’s any comfort, to you at all, you’ve helped me with that.
He was the kind of guy who would listen to me speak, or at least pretend to. He would find out what made my eyes brighten. He made me feel like the Northern Star, which was kind of a big deal considering my body was the endless night that I seemed to get lost in time and time again. Today, I realize the problem is that he never knew what stars looked like, sure, he had an idea, but he had never seen one, and to be quite honest, neither had I, or have I for that matter. Living in the city has its perks, but being able to see the stars isn’t one of them. They say the city never sleeps, neither did he, and neither did the polluting lights of the 24 hours casinos and clubs. I may have felt like a star, but looking back, I was only the reflecting glass of a strobe light.
I never thought I’d be strong enough to let him go, but after five years, I did. I have you to thank for that. There’s only so many times you can look at an airplane and convince yourself that it’s a shooting star. Like the Big Apple, I can say I’ve moved on.
You’re the first boy I’ve ever touched, kissed, embraced. You’re the sun that rose after a long night of me screaming into my pillow that it was the end, and that I would never wake up from a certain reoccurring nightmare. I never thought I would see light sprinkle through my curtains, never thought I would emotionally attach myself to another airplane embodiment again.
People are inconsistent; nothing ever remains the same, nor does it ever stay in one place, and I had sworn the moment I left the city that I would never again settle. I guess I didn’t realize that boarding endless airplanes had strapped me to the sky. I was still tied down, just differently.
The moment I met you, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time. The way your blonde hair fell over half of your forehead, how you walked into the gymnasium with a sort of ‘i can care less’ attitude. I don’t know what it was, but I knew you were an adventure I just had to attempt.
Each adventure is different; you’re far different from the amateur astrologer I had left in the next state. He spent time making maps; trying to figure out my thought process; how to understand my constellations, and how to tear them apart. You were a painter; an artist; more interested in the curves and lines of my body, the hue of my eyes, the colour of my laughter amongst the rest of the crowd. You taught me how to use my tongue as a paintbrush, and my hands as blending tools; you placed your hand in mine and make me think that you and I were a blank canvas that we would construct together.
Months have taught me that art is never really finished. Our canvas is a mess of us; my distinctive colour against yours. I was always carving straight lines, while you were painting crooked lines. You and I are following different strokes, but your edges and my surface seem to create a picture unlike any other. They say art is something that can not be defined, and I am torn between trying to decide whether we’ve built a masterpiece or something that will end up hung on a parents refrigerator. But then again, what’s wrong with that?
He was an astronomer, you’re a painter, and I’m unsure. I’m not quite sure who I am; sometimes I feel like laying in the grass and taking a ride on Camelopardalis or sitting in the hammock of the Great Dipper; other days I feel like painting pink on lover’s cheeks, and digging my nails in the bare canvas. And some days, I want to do nothing but lay in my room and dream of a future that nobody seems to understand; what am I supposed to do when I see myself sitting under a countryside sky on a wooden porch holding the stained hands of a boy who I swore could never love me.
Maybe I’m not really the Northern Star. Maybe I’m not the Mona Lisa. But more than often it’s blind leading the blind, and I’m sorry. I’m not sure where my mind is anymore. I’m not sure of anything, except that my eyes are painted with your reflection. Maybe that’s art. Maybe, it’s not.
© NJ 2015, all rights reserved
A year ago, I could’ve sworn that I loved a boy so much I would do anything for him. Today, I’m not sure I have ever loved anyone at all, and if it’s any comfort, to you at all, you’ve helped me with that.
He was the kind of guy who would listen to me speak, or at least pretend to. He would find out what made my eyes brighten. He made me feel like the Northern Star, which was kind of a big deal considering my body was the endless night that I seemed to get lost in time and time again. Today, I realize the problem is that he never knew what stars looked like, sure, he had an idea, but he had never seen one, and to be quite honest, neither had I, or have I for that matter. Living in the city has its perks, but being able to see the stars isn’t one of them. They say the city never sleeps, neither did he, and neither did the polluting lights of the 24 hours casinos and clubs. I may have felt like a star, but looking back, I was only the reflecting glass of a strobe light.
I never thought I’d be strong enough to let him go, but after five years, I did. I have you to thank for that. There’s only so many times you can look at an airplane and convince yourself that it’s a shooting star. Like the Big Apple, I can say I’ve moved on.
You’re the first boy I’ve ever touched, kissed, embraced. You’re the sun that rose after a long night of me screaming into my pillow that it was the end, and that I would never wake up from a certain reoccurring nightmare. I never thought I would see light sprinkle through my curtains, never thought I would emotionally attach myself to another airplane embodiment again.
People are inconsistent; nothing ever remains the same, nor does it ever stay in one place, and I had sworn the moment I left the city that I would never again settle. I guess I didn’t realize that boarding endless airplanes had strapped me to the sky. I was still tied down, just differently.
The moment I met you, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time. The way your blonde hair fell over half of your forehead, how you walked into the gymnasium with a sort of ‘i can care less’ attitude. I don’t know what it was, but I knew you were an adventure I just had to attempt.
Each adventure is different; you’re far different from the amateur astrologer I had left in the next state. He spent time making maps; trying to figure out my thought process; how to understand my constellations, and how to tear them apart. You were a painter; an artist; more interested in the curves and lines of my body, the hue of my eyes, the colour of my laughter amongst the rest of the crowd. You taught me how to use my tongue as a paintbrush, and my hands as blending tools; you placed your hand in mine and make me think that you and I were a blank canvas that we would construct together.
Months have taught me that art is never really finished. Our canvas is a mess of us; my distinctive colour against yours. I was always carving straight lines, while you were painting crooked lines. You and I are following different strokes, but your edges and my surface seem to create a picture unlike any other. They say art is something that can not be defined, and I am torn between trying to decide whether we’ve built a masterpiece or something that will end up hung on a parents refrigerator. But then again, what’s wrong with that?
He was an astronomer, you’re a painter, and I’m unsure. I’m not quite sure who I am; sometimes I feel like laying in the grass and taking a ride on Camelopardalis or sitting in the hammock of the Great Dipper; other days I feel like painting pink on lover’s cheeks, and digging my nails in the bare canvas. And some days, I want to do nothing but lay in my room and dream of a future that nobody seems to understand; what am I supposed to do when I see myself sitting under a countryside sky on a wooden porch holding the stained hands of a boy who I swore could never love me.
Maybe I’m not really the Northern Star. Maybe I’m not the Mona Lisa. But more than often it’s blind leading the blind, and I’m sorry. I’m not sure where my mind is anymore. I’m not sure of anything, except that my eyes are painted with your reflection. Maybe that’s art. Maybe, it’s not.
© NJ 2015, all rights reserved
