We always joked that we wouldn't be **** buddies.
Anything involving *** will not work for an asexual.
We'd be cuddle buddies.
The second we'd meet up, we'd hug and cuddle.
We wouldn't do as most long distance 'couples' would.
We'd just cuddle.
Maybe I could finally fall asleep.
Something's changed between then and now.
You've changed.
When you stopped caring, I'm not sure.
But you did.
You stopped caring about me and that's okay.
Something got in between us.
Not just distance
I still can't help but think how nicely our bodies tessellated.
Even with 1047 miles between us.

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

White slates
blank plates
isolate ....
let's relate
let emotions
delegate
risky stakes
who cares
let's ...
before it's too
late

flip/switch.

the dark runs to corners:
unswept cobwebs, unmarked
graves of
lacewings.

mirror, mirror.

tessellate:
you
me
you
kaleidoscopic in the seven years’
worth of bad luck.

you come here with new eyes and
brand-new dockers. i
mend the broken siding in my mind’s eye.
prune the wisteria and uproot
ivy in handfuls.

i unconsciously check for
onion peel
underneath the kitchen sink.

the pantry
where one of the pups died.
the disappointment of eyes
bloodshot
but dry.

Dear, dear, don’t go out, dear
don’t move don’t play don’t do
stay, stay in my embrace, is my caress not enough for you?
i’ll hug your frame till the inside it flees for good
safe and warm and safe and warm

they’ve come and i’ve no way to go, stay
the door is closed, you see them drift by but don’t go, don’t go
heady bright fluorescents that drug, stay planted
with me dear, with me, don’t go
hold me back, closer, i’ll drop a kiss on your blank forehead
dear i love you, i love you, i love you

live thunderclouds in the sky, killing rain solidified underneath
they play haunting un-music, the silence absolute
and dear stop asking questions,
don’t talk about them don’t break under curiosity, stay still, stay silent
stay here in my embrace and let us comfort each other
dear shh, no don’t, don’t talk, because they’ll know
they’ll know they’ll know they know

dear you left me, i told you not
to go but you went through the door like a storm
and you closed it; the room is electricity as
i watch you move; cobbled streets
and then you are there in front and i wasn’t enough as
they reach tendrils to your cheeks and whisper the universe
you laugh and tessellate
and then you fall and crash and dissolve

dear i am alone
i still see you out there sometimes, purple and black
and blue where they loved you
a delicacy; escargot for the new reign
of apathetic gods who love and then forget and
dear, dear the house creaks where they brush by and i
miss those questions, wind in my ears
not silent prairie of fear and loss and grief

dear i love you
dear i am not enough
dear i am sorry

When you change the colour of the view,
The world takes on a different hue.
Writing's both a window and a mirror,
You can see life and yourself clearer.
This stained glass window labelled a poem,
Different phrases, different colours, different gems.
The scales of glass in an iron frame,
My words must fit the form.
Each word a different shard on the palette,
A poetic mosaic, not quite transparent.

A translucent lens.

I will you see creation through it
Extenuating before you in a piquant pigment.
In a tint I can show you joy,
In a separate, pane. Tainted.
Yellow, blue, red and green,
And a thousand nuances yet unseen.
You can't read all of it, nor look through every colour,
But perhaps the icon on the window can be discerned
When they tessellate together, the person I am trying to show, the bigger picture, the grand design.

Some nights, I would set sail
To a thousand words on paper,
And one by one, they would get lost
Beneath the rip tides of your skin.

In sentience and in sleep,
Darling, you are only as real
As the last verse I wrote
On the crumpled walls of dusk.

While the world slaughters dreamers,
I watch you, begging the moon
To drop pieces of itself on sea foam.
I am a slave to your every step.

Tucked underneath crystalline sighs,
The stars would come out to put up tents
In the corner of your eyes, their light
Guiding the way for misguided missives.

Moored to your voice, I listen
As you speak in the language of waves,
Your words undulating with my metaphors,
But stirring holocausts for the heartbroken.

But you are here, and the lines between your eyes
Get tangled up with thoughts bred by midnight.
Your hair, your hair, they tessellate and play
With the colors of honey and amber.

Perhaps, if one were to crack you open
The light of a thousand adjectives
Would come seeping out of your skin.
I am but the shadow it will cast.

And in shadows, they whisper
That dreams can get lost
In the vacancies of the night.
Every night, with you
I set sail to my words
To find them
And lure them back.

There’s something so hopeful
about a pitch black sky—
the kind of deep and ominous nothing
that couldn’t care less about your
renewed sunrise and
clean slated second chances.
There’s a calm in that darkness
that I **** up in one breath.
I hold it there, in my swollen lungs,
until I go a purple fit for her majesty,
and any specks of light that catch my eye
tessellate and turn and repeat.
This world becomes a slow song
caught in a kaleidoscope,
and I’m dancing,
happily,
happily alone.