excerpts from a book I'll never write II

it's you and me

You ask me to merry you every day. It's a good joke, I'm not gonna lie. It is a very good joke. Especially because we both know it's not a joke at all.

You know how we are. We never say things we don't mean. I call you an asshole because you are, and you tell me I shut you out because I do. You ask me to marry you because you would, and I say yes because I will. I always say yes. And there is not a thing I mean more than this stupid, childish joke. Because it's true. It is incomprehensible and twisted and completely fucked. But it is true.

***

The two of us, we say we don't want to hear a single word about love, you know, the romantic kind, the so much more painful kind because we don't believe in it. But we are so stupid.

Because when a week went by and a month, I was counting days since I last saw you, and I had a countdown going to that day five years from now when we'd meet again. Five years is a lot of days. 1825 to be precise. And I will be there. I will be there because you have made your way into everything I say and do and wear. I will be there because I love you and am no longer willing to analyse what that stands for. I will be there simply because I miss you. And because five years from now, I will not have met anyone who makes me happier and more alive than you do. I will be there because yesterday you sent me a text saying I can't love anyone else and because neither can I. I will be there because I will have stopped looking for someone special, for that someone special has always been you.

***

I don't know where I will be and who I'll be with and what I'II be doing in five years but today I am in pain. Just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.

And when we take this period of time apart, separate it into these small eternities we call days, it's always the little things that hurt the most. It hurts when your arm is not draped around me early in the morning when I'm trying to get out of bed. It hurts when your laughter doesn't echo through the speaker when I complain to you about my brother. It hurts when I finish off at the studio and you are not there to pick me up with that sly grin on your face or that pissed off scowl or those cried out eyes or that glowing smile. Dear God, that smile. But mostly it hurts when I'm talking to a guy I like and he likes me, and I look him in the eyes, and I just know I could never love him nearly as much as I love you.