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Hey {}, I decided to type this out since I am better with this medium at getting
my thoughts formed concisely and clearly. Plus, I can spend a few days fine
tuning it, as I have. However, I have so much to tell you.
It is not news but I seriously can’t get you out of my head. You are constantly
hijacking my thoughts like you own the damn place. No matter what I am doing, no
matter where I am, no matter what time it is, you are always on my mind. Whether
its in the front or the back, its just always there. You are in my brain before
I even open my eyes in the morning.
Sometimes, it fuels me, it excites me, motivates me, makes me feel so alive.
Makes my heart tingle and tickles my bones making me smile like an idiot. Makes
me feel grateful for being able to experience such a unique feeling, so intense,
so pure. Just immersing myself in these wonderful feelings I have for you and
the wonderful person you are, happy you exist.
But, other times, it pulls me down. It captures me in this prison of feeling not
satisfied, wanting more, wanting YOU and not being able to experience you and
life with you. Not being able to give you love like I want to. Not being able to
do all the things that my heart aches for and my soul calls for. A prison I can’t
get out of, where the intensity of my desire does not open these prison doors for
me, it can not. Feeling all those incredible feelings for someone I can’t reach.
It overpowers me at times, I try to fight the bitter in the bittersweet, but
sometimes it just wins. Leaving me feeling sad that you’re not next to me right
now.
But then the same thought that gave me the pain, gives me the pleasure again,
sometimes almost instantly, isn’t that crazy haha? Look at me, smiling like an
idiot right now as I am writing this because I thought of you and I felt you,
there is really nothing sweeter than you.
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“You are like my favorite book” Is what I want to say. But the truth is that I
want to read you. I want to carry you around in my back pocket, In the console
of my car, In my backpack where important things like lighters and quarters
rest. You are pages and pages of subtext, of metaphor, of symbolism And I’m a
third grader. Sure, I can read most of your words. And I might even know what
is happening on the surface level of your story. But your depth is the middle
of one of those giant jaw breakers, all technicolor and sweet, And I am just a
mouth breather with a dry tongue. I cannot fully appreciate you. I want to,
so badly do I want to but it is wholly unfair of me to bend your spine to fit
into my tiny hands. It is wholly unjust for me to dog ear the pages that are
easy to digest and just read those favorite, simple parts over and over again.
Because the hard parts, with clumsy, stumbling words that I don’t fully
understand, those are what make you beautiful. Those are what make me want you.
Your passages that I can’t relate to, that challenge my view of the world,
that would leave me sleepless and shaken in my feeble attempts to comprehend
and reconcile - that’s where our strength, and greatest frustrations, would
lie. But you deserve someone who would read you cover to cover, without skipping
the difficult parts. You deserve someone who wants to wallow in your
complexity, and understands it.
But do I want to.
If I were a book I’d be more like the one you found in the library in middle
school. The one with maybe a little too much sex for your 12 year old
sensibilities. Like, who the hell let this into the school library anyway? That
book you hid under Harry Potter and waited until all the other kids had left the
counter to check out. I was a rush, completely exhilarating for one hundred and
seventy eight pages. And then you set me down. Found other favorites. Later in
high school or college in a fit of nostalgia you would seek me out again. Lock
yourself in your room and dig in only to find that I wasn’t as whole or exciting
as you remember. Nobody can blame you. I certainly don’t. You are a classic, the
love of a lifetime and I’m a lousy, drunken, hurried fuck.
And maybe at my best I’m simple. Maybe I’m see spot run. If you wanted to crack
open my cover love I would lay it all out on the table for you. No hidden
message, no fancy words or elaborate simile. With me, what you see IS what you
get. I like to think I’m solid, I’m stable, honest, maybe even genuine. I could
be the winter moon, helping you find your house key when it is so cold your
fingers turn white. I want to be the North Star that you use to find your way
home. Even if that home isn’t me. And see, sometimes I too, like spot, run.
Funny, funny, me. Sometimes I am so simple, so obtuse, so damn plain that my own
brain tries to leak out of my ears. My heart tries to beat out of my chest and
into any one else who has the capacity to listen to it. So I run, I get lost
amongst your stuffed animals and puzzles and coloring books before you have the
chance to make a choice between me and something else. I’m everyone’s favorite
book, if only for a little bit, until they move on to a better one. I hope you
at least keep me on your shelf, even if you never dust me off.
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/ / - Dhananjaya D R
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`*-* `*-* `*-*'
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PS - Just wondering, have you ever thought about how your hand will fit in mine?
Because, I have, and it drives me fucking crazy. I want to find out.
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