I don’t regret anything. You are so beautiful that my tongue goes numb and my knees go all a-quiver and I couldn’t tell if I loved you or if I was having an allergic reaction. The first time I tasted what you had to offer (and here is a short list of things you had to offer: yr skin, which tasted like tangerines, the savory tang of pot smoke in your unwashed hair, chicken curry and naan, too strong green tea, crest toothpaste after your very thorough dental hygiene routine), on top of the pillars at Berkeley 1 , I thought yes yes yes this is it i have found the thing i have been looking for. Clearly, mistakes were made, but I don’t regret looking across the table and deciding that one, right there, perfect. 2
(I am both surprised and disappointed in the persistence of my desire for you).
And maybe, the most disheartening realization of all: it won’t ever be what we want. It’s sad when you know you could love the fuck outta someone’s stupid shit and they just can’t.
The epicenter of all this disaster can not be traced to a breakdown. Was my head on your shoulder too heavy? Did my mutterings in the mornings about the ice cream truck at the wedding and what did you think about Great Pyreneese puppies and a house in the hills, scare you off? People tell me, while backing away, that I have a gift for unabashed enthusiasm and I wonder sometimes if I was all too too much. When you laid your head on my chest to sleep, could you hear the missed beats of my unstable heart? Did you know right then and there what a disaster I would turn out to be?
The snap of some unknown hips3? Did my fist in the porcelain bowl of your hips feel too much like violence?
Irregardless, you are beautiful. The bat of your butterfly eyelashes slays me, the indulgent lushness of your mouth kills me and I am left breathless, gasping.
[1] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYGb_1hL6aE
2. I do regret embarrassing Kim, WHO I STILL LOVE UNGH UNGH WEE LIL SWEATER VESTS.
3. Your own ass is evidence that the divine does not require a god.

No comments:
Post a Comment