There was once a famous painter who, to express his love for a woman, cut his own ear off and sent it to her. We all know the story. Even I, a pretty eccentric and extreme person myself, thinks that's way too extreme. but hey, nothing says I Love You like a ****** chunk of cartage stuffed in an envelope right?
A couple days ago you told me to do something that scares the **** out of me, at least once everyday. No, I didn't cut my ear off or anything like that. lol. but that night I sat and thought about things that frighten me but to no avail. I wouldn't say I'm fearless, but I'm a person who enjoys taking risks and prides himself on surviving the most horrific experiences. There aren't many things in this world that rattle me. I'm not superstitious, I have no interest in what others think about me, and pain is only temporary. Well, Physical pain. Pain of a more emotional variety can last. Years even. An intangible, constricting weight of question. A couple thousand needles of "What if?". A potent venom of repeating "I wish". The things that spread your eyelids apart in the middle of the night. When you tell your body "No." When you squeeze your pillow and mumble to your own thoughts "No, don't you dare wander to that place." When you plead with yourself to forget.
Nights like this are the reason why I find it hard to write you, the nights where I don't sleep, can't sleep until I write you and even though most times I don't send the messages, (Or they get sent to you accidently baha) I'm gonna send this one to you. Because it scares the **** out of me.
Starting is the hardest part. It's been probably forty five minutes since I've started the occasional ritual of tossing my bed covers aside and pacing around my room tenderly as if I'm scanning the ground for the words I need, as if I could just pick them right up and hand them to you. However, I always find nothing. I skip every other step on the way down to the computer and sit gingerly in my lame floral chair, watching my cursor blink against your empty message box. It speaks to me. "Blink type something ****** Blink." After a few minutes of typing and erasing and typing and erasing I thought "This is stupid." Then I remembered the story about the painter. It made me think. People have always done stupid things for love. Sure, I'd be embarrassed and vulnerable and possibly even having you meet me with a spine shattering "sigh", "This is getting old." or even have "What is the ****** point?" hammering my morning thoughts. But Hey, At least I'm not mutilating myself.
Well. I tend to beat around the bush a lot, but at this rate I'm just stepping on the twigs. Dancing on the torn leaves and such. I'll stop. I have some things I want to tell you.
I won't let my guilt stop me from saying what I want to say this time as I've done many times in the the past. I think that's what holds me back, the guilt? Whatever.. I mean you're over it, I should be too. I know you're over me too, but that won't stop me either. Des, I miss you. I miss your voice. The medicine in your laugh, the discipline in your scowl. The way that we'd talk all through the night till one of us unked it. The several stones that would plop in my stomach when I would get a text from 'Desire Deslonchamps', Your french *** name (It's so **** btw) I miss the armada of butterflies roosting on my ribs whenever you'd tell me you adored me. I miss our conversations, you have always reached higher than anyone else I have ever talked to intellectually and I mean that quite literally. it baffles me how no matter who else I was with, they were never good enough. That I was always comparing them to you, and thinking "Des wouldn't have said that." or "Des would have loved this more." No one is as funny or talkative or as tender or as wild as you. I would stuff every single one of those girls in a shredder just for even 5 minutes with you.
I look through your pictures all the time, I feel like a teenager sifting dreamily through a magazine looking at some chiseled, oiled up celebrity that doesn't even know she exists. I read everything you post, I worry when you seem sad, I laugh when you laugh. Everytime Facebook tells me you've uploaded and new picture I always go look and end up sighing like a ***** maiden. Excuse the metaphor but it's true. haha.
A couple days ago, when you were telling me about your ex, for a second I kind of thought you were talking about me... and I got so excited, I really thought that you still felt for me and that maybe I hadn't completely lost it and that you weren't jaded or whatever, but when you showed me what you actually did write him, and everything and... ugghh, I just felt so stupid. Sososososo stupid. I don't know why... and I know you still really like him and everything, but I just want to let you know that the level of emotion and personal attention I have for you is strong and consistent. I'm not saying that no one will ever feel for you as strongly as I do, But I'm saying that it'd be pretty **** hard to top it. I just want to let you know that this will never go away. I have tried everything short of a lobotomy but I can't ever, and will never forget about you. I know how foolish it is, but there is no way I could ever help it. Humanity help me, it's literally impossible to knock, like that crazy romance **** You see in movies. It's unreal.
Desiree I think about you more than I think about Sableyes and Adoring fans and Acid trips and soft melodies. All of the things I daydream about. Whenever I daydream, I always add on the wishful thought of someday sharing whatever I'm dreaming about with you, or just sharing me with you. I laugh hysterically in my head at the thought of ever being what I once was to you again, a laugh developed by my pride to stifle my cries and soak up my tears before they ever surface. No, I'm not sad all the time, just when the thinking reaches a fever pitch. Sad isn't the word, more like frustrated. You know me better than anyone on this planet, seriously, You know that I have problems communicating my feelings properly. Most of the thinking is me trying to put words together for you. Though I usually don't come up with anything until I actually do write you, There's always been one thing that I've wanted to tell you that I could never form an appropriate form for and even saying it now would do it an injustice because I can't make these words jump off of the screen and wrap it's arms securely around waist, or whisper quietly in your ear or emulate the disparity of them properly, it's all I got. This xenomorphic phrase.
Physical pain may be temporary, but I'm still too much of a ***** to cut off my own ear, So these words, They're all I have left. The only thing that I can give to you with every bit of a human heart and genuine honesty I have...
Desiree Deslongchamps,
I love you.