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Posts Tagged ‘smooching’

january started me up

I. and so the harsh-lit concrete
became our golden brick road
hand in hand
palm to palm
alien shoulders, elbows
and arms merely brushing
as I urged you forward
to run away with me.
II. alcohol-laden breaths
pumping heaving lungs
you held on to me
as we escaped from wolves
for a few magical moments
I was yours and yours alone
your face glowing, bathed
by the gloomy lamp post.
III. half way to the end of the road
you stopped me
“do you really need to go now?”
you shook my world
halting myself from kissing you
I dragged you up
and out of the world you once knew
“don’t look back.”
IV. and so the cold dusty road
heard us
our footsteps, our laughter
stomping and running
your heavy breath and mine
my beating heart and yours
and we only stopped to board the train
…and then we were off again.

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You and me. We’re like a hot, bright firework.

It doesn’t matter that the hot part is over, and was over more than 10 years ago now. The hot part where we just shot into the sky and fucking exploded and fell in love way too quick and both got really scared about how intense it was. How we were saying it to each other wide-eyed and incredulous, writing it to each other on paper making it real. We would get in your bed and stay up literally all night making out. We couldn’t stop. We’d fall asleep for a couple hours with our faces pressed together and our hearts and eyelids fluttering and our tattoos smushing together into new designs and our breathing in rhythm all too-perfect-like. I’ve kissed a lot of boys and I still remember your kisses. If they hadn’t been so vivid and volcanic and all over me and impossible the next part might not have happened.

That’s the part where the firework is still happening but it’s losing its heat. It’s still sparkling and shimmering and still there…but the real explosion is over. All the little stars are moving away from each other but the idea of what was there still exists, filling out the shape. That’s the part that happened after you smashed my heart. You got more scared than me. You moved thousands of miles away. But then you came back. And you kept coming back into my life for years. We kept going through the motions as much as other relationships and life would allow. Sometimes we’d see each other every day. Our bands played shows together. For a while we were even neighbors. I never stopped wanting to kiss your face. Every single second we spent together getting coffee, watching movies, lounging around outside, talking about stupid shit like robots and our bands and our lives and relationships and how we wanted everything and nothing and were never satisfied…I could barely look at your neutron star eyes that I kept falling into for years. We both knew it and didn’t know it. You apologized for everything from forever ago. Said you were wrong, scared. Our hearts were both bloody on our sleeves but we didn’t want to ruin each other’s lives…though we came so close so many times…every time you threw pebbles at my window or put your head in my lap when we were sitting on a bench or showed up drenched in a rain storm at my door. Every time we hugged so tight and so long when we parted, your face buried in my long hair, your eyelashes flicking my cheek. I think you held me like that to keep our lips as far apart as they could reasonably be in an embrace. My heart would pound so hard I thought it might knock you over. We shimmered and sparkled around and outside ourselves.

I got married. And that’s the part where we turned to ash. You told me once you thought we’d have ended up together for good if I’d never met my husband and I still agree. We’re grown up now. The universe still keeps cleverly throwing our daily orbits together, over and over again. But it’s cool now. I run into you often. I don’t have a heart attack anymore. I’m just happy I still get to see your face while the ash whirls and falls around us and quietly settles on our cheeks and eyelashes, in our hair, on our hands, on the ground.

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The first time we made out you made me so late for a show. I was meeting up with some of my favorite people and yet I couldn’t make myself leave your house.

I had to go all the way home and change my pants. I don’t usually get quite that wet making out with people. As if you made me a teenager again for a moment. No more grey jeans around you.

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When I was tiny I watched movies that were somehow deemed “appropriate” but still often confused me with their adult subtexts.

One of my favorites was Footloose, of course. And when Sarah Jessica Parker tells Ariel “He’s from out of town and don’t tell me that doesn’t curl your toes because I know it does,” I really actually had no idea.

Maybe smarter kids knew what “curl your toes” meant – but I didn’t until I was old enough to engage in toe curling activities.

But even knowing, I feel like you redefine it. You actually literally make my toes curl. I can’t quite handle all of the things you make me feel.

I know the circumstances heighten the feelings, but my whole body goes to another place when you touch me.

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You told me you had a girlfriend, but it blew my mind because you ALWAYS told me about how much you hated her, and how annoying she was. It just surprised me.

You called me late at night telling me you loved me, and you couldn’t wait to break up with her. Then one night we were playing 20 questions, and I said, “What’s the worst thing about me?” and you quickly replied, “That you might not like me any more.” Honestly I thought I was over you, because I went months without talking to you. I thought I didn’t need you, until you showed me why I fell in love with you in the first place.

Now that you guys are broken up, you barely talk to me. I mean we have lunch together, and everyone in our whole high school can tell that we have chemistry. We are just alike, attractive and funny. We are the cutest couple, and everyone says so. And two weeks ago when you came over to my house, you kissed me, and then you didn’t talk to me, until today, the first day of school, when we sat with my friends at our normal lunch spot.

On our way out to the buses, you told me that you wanted me to sit with you tomorrow and that you wanted to randomly start making out. I love you, and I don’t want to wait for you to get the balls to ask me out. I mean im not the dork I used to be. Im going to move on, and find someone, who will give me all of their love. I don’t want to wait, when you don’t want anything, but sex.

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Once upon a time all the magic I was hoping for totally messed up and arrived all on one night. You made me believe that.

I was a tiny college child. I was infatuated with you, but not in any creepy way…you were sort of this muse who popped in and out of my life and my line of sight while I fell in love with other boys and frolicked about. I didn’t even know your name. I called you Cute Boy. We were thrown together by college things from time to time, and once you said you liked my socks. But who cares about socks!? I just wanted to do you. I had to read Daphnis and Chloe for class and decided you were the Daphnis to my Chloe…so I called you Daphnis instead. Then I stopped and called you Cute Boy again. But never any of this to your fucking cute face. I just wrote poems about you instead.

One night I went to see the Flaming Lips with another boy. I left to walk home convinced I was made of music and glitter and flowers and fake blood and cigarettes and vodka. It had been the most special and awesome show of my life thus far and I couldn’t shut up about it. I left a trail of confetti all the way through the city to my doorstep where I sat at 2am with that other boy and smoked rainbow cigarettes and giggled about how pissed my roommate would be when we went upstairs and made a ruckus before passing out in my tiny dorm bed. Something made us stay outside instead of going inside to snuggle.

I was mid-drag on my hot pink cigarette when you walked up my steps and sat next to me. I thought maybe someone had slipped me something at the show because I was clearly imagining this. You said Hi. You knew my name. You said we should hang out, that it was long overdue. You gave me your number on this small scrap of yellow paper. You said you hoped I would call soon, kissed me on the cheek and took off into the night. The other boy could not believe it – he knew about you, how I felt about you, had even seen you before. We were just friends and he proclaimed that night to be the most magical night.

So I called you. And we went out. And we made out. A lot. I told you everything about how I had thought you were cute for so long but too shy to do anything about it, and you told the same things back to me. That it was the same for you. You had the deepest darkest sparkling eyes and your bed head destroyed me. One night during a crazy lighting storm you told me you thought you might love me and I believed you. Until the next morning when it dawned on me that that, was probably the end.

And it was. I think your proclamation of love scared you. We saw each other a few more times to make out and listen to music and smoke cigarettes. We left for the summer and chatted online a few times but never saw each other. The next fall we made out a couple of times and went record shopping, and that was that. I wasn’t disappointed because I knew the magic had peaked that first night. My friend even said.

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Your photo hung in my locker.
Your doodles were all over my notebook.
Your signature was in my yearbook.
Your phone number was memorized.

You tucked my hair behind my ear.
You pushed me up against my locker.

I was so afraid.
But I wanted you so much.
I wished I was older. Older enough to handle it.
But now that I’m old enough to handle you, we don’t fit.
Don’t match. Wouldn’t belong together.

Maybe teenagers are just less judgmental.
They love easy. No discernment.

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