Jan 2019
The Power of a Cheekbone
the one that got away. i used to think sayings like this were silly, but everyone is in their own right. he was beautiful. i can say that. others say it too, often, or maybe only think it in secret. but he was mine, i was his and we were lost in a dream that we could only see by pushing forward, one bus stop at a time, one venti ice water less ice, one hickey, one stop at the vending machine. one breakup, one kiss, one i love you at a time. we lived something others envied, but i was blind to jealousy, i could never understand why. why would someone want to take a leap of faith into nothing but the dream of something different, hopefully not dark but no promise of light either- a road trip, abandon their family, break hearts for no good reason other than wanton hope and pure adrenaline. not the kind where you are in danger, but the kind that makes you feel alive.
we lived lovely, alone but together. we were at the lowest point but riding a newfound, begging, irrevocable high. there is nothing like having no one but your other half. you meld together, meld hearts, meld lips, tears and toil too. there is nothing like the company of the loneliness you gave everything for.
the world was ours. not in the sense that it revolved around us, but that time has stopped. existence was nothing, but our essence, fused together like a star. imminent passion and renegade love, we were in the middle of something catastrophic, but we loved it. we ate our own tears for breakfast, had laughs for lunch, *** for dinner, and a curse to our parents for dessert. it was a cycle, a vicious one, but beautiful and pristine all the same.
the one thing i can say about my first love, my teacher, my best friend, my darling and my grave, the pure joy was enough to come back looking for pain, and the beauty of a broken heart, it was my pleasure just to look at you, to know by memory, like the alphabet or how to pronounce the name Kulusich - The way my hand fit into the curve of his cheekbones like a mortar and pestle rough, hardened like stone, but softer and more natural like a river over time.. the hurting is enough to end all ends, but the memory is what keeps me alive.
the one that got away. i used to think sayings like this were silly, but everyone is in their own right. he was beautiful. i can say that. others say it too, often, or maybe only think it in secret. but he was mine, i was his and we were lost in a dream that we could only see by pushing forward, one bus stop at a time, one venti ice water less ice, one hickey, one stop at the vending machine. one breakup, one kiss, one i love you at a time. we lived something others envied, but i was blind to jealousy, i could never understand why. why would someone want to take a leap of faith into nothing but the dream of something different, hopefully not dark but no promise of light either- a road trip, abandon their family, break hearts for no good reason other than wanton hope and pure adrenaline. not the kind where you are in danger, but the kind that makes you feel alive.
we lived lovely, alone but together. we were at the lowest point but riding a newfound, begging, irrevocable high. there is nothing like having no one but your other half. you meld together, meld hearts, meld lips, tears and toil too. there is nothing like the company of the loneliness you gave everything for.
the world was ours. not in the sense that it revolved around us, but that time has stopped. existence was nothing, but our essence, fused together like a star. imminent passion and renegade love, we were in the middle of something catastrophic, but we loved it. we ate our own tears for breakfast, had laughs for lunch, *** for dinner, and a curse to our parents for dessert. it was a cycle, a vicious one, but beautiful and pristine all the same.
the one thing i can say about my first love, my teacher, my best friend, my darling and my grave, the pure joy was enough to come back looking for pain, and the beauty of a broken heart, it was my pleasure just to look at you, to know by memory, like the alphabet or how to pronounce the name Kulusich - The way my hand fit into the curve of his cheekbones like a mortar and pestle rough, hardened like stone, but softer and more natural like a river over time.. the hurting is enough to end all ends, but the memory is what keeps me alive.
this isnt a poem, but i feel it is important to my writing, so take your time reading something this convoluted and distant, know it was so pristine and life altering for me. i wish everyone memories as powerful as this.
