I like how we can sit together comfortably in silence. I like how we can really speak without having to say much- you over there, me over here, two bodies with seemingly one mind.
I like how we can stand together, miles apart yet seemingly right next to each other. I like how we can put a smile on each other’s faces: my ditzy grin complements your beautiful smile. I like how well we know each other, how we fit so well together, without trying too much.
I like how I can always smile whenever I’m with you.
I like you.
They say puppy love is always the best. The way you look at your new partner, the way they look at you. There’s a surrealistic tension, the ever present question of Is this really happening? It’s magical, you feel like you’re on a whole new level altogether. Like magic, that level might not seem real at times too.
Puppy love is the cutest when you can’t help but want to be around each other all the time; when you learn new things you would have never known otherwise about each other. Puppy love is cutest when skinny love isn’t so skinny anymore.
Puppy love is the best feeling, but puppy love can only bud if you have the guts to say the magic words I like you.
The eggshell is a curious thing: upright it is able to withstand immense amounts of pressure, but a crack on the side is sufficient to break it apart. I guess in a way it makes total sense: no matter how hardened one may seem, there are always weak spots, vulnerable spots that may cause a facade to crumble away.
The eggshell is a curious thing indeed.
I haven’t seen many springs, falls or winters. I barely see them at all. Where I come from, it’s always summer, and the world is nothing but heat. But in my travels and various stays abroad, I’ve discovered a the existence of the other seasons, and I’ve grown to love them thusly. The spring with her reviving powers, the fall with her colorful touch of death, and the winter with her harsh but beautiful snow.
I haven’t seen too many of the seasons, but I know enough of them to know that spring is the season when new things bloom, a time for new beginnings. I want to watch the flowers bloom.
I had the same dream again: I saw you from the back while we walked on the same road. You were a few paces away from me, and walking alone. I wanted to wave and shout, as a means to catch your attention, but you didn’t seem to hear me. I walked faster, willing my legs to move a little quicker in an attempt to catch up with you, but every quickened step I took, you seemed to match. We were still walking in the same direction, at a steady pace, but the distance felt greater than ever.
We walked: me trying to catch up to you; you walking along oblivious to my efforts. Somewhere along the way you were joined by a friend, but I remained alone. Still I chase after you, in an attempt for companionship. You don’t seem to notice, but laugh that joyful laugh I dearly love- it’s not because of me.
The problem is that I’ve had this dream too many times before. Sometimes I don’t even know if it’s a fragment of my memory from real life, a mere dream, or a recurring nightmare anymore.
It’s scary sometimes. Words don’t flow the way they used to. Sometimes words come to me in waves, but you’re not there to hear them. But when you’re here, I find myself rendered bare of the only resource I can claim to be full of: words. What’s a raconteur without an arsenal of poignant thoughts carefully crafted into prose?
There’s always too much that I want to say, in too little ways. These thoughts go unsaid, because reality cannot bear the weight of their existence yet; maybe it never will. But somehow, I wish you could see into the unspoken, read between the lines, and tell me that it’s alright.
I can do okay with that.
There are so many things I want to say to you. But now is not the time. So I hold my tongue, and hope that my heart won’t be crushed under the weight of my unspoken words.
At eighteen we think we’ve seen enough of the world to know how it works: we are invincible. By twenty-one we know better than to think like that: we are merely a gear in a great big system.
But no matter how old I get on the outside, on the inside I’m still just a kid. One who cries at skinned knees and easily falls apart.
