To me, a romantic is constantly searching for something bigger than them. They have this cookie cutter idea of how things will fall into place upon meeting this imaginary person. Not only that, they can make the most mundane things resplendent. To me, I am that romantic.
A simple careless moment now means a spacious memory in my purple trapper keeper, right behind the Lisa Frank stickers but before the chemistry notes from high school high. I try my hardest to never over-analyze the amount of time before someone picks up the phone; instead my irises register the interweaving details of when we sit alone. We sit alone in your bent up car waiting for that red light to give us a chance at doing all the wrong things life has to offer us. I turn the black dusty volume knob on the dashboard a little too loud. But, it’s totally okay because it’s our song. We sit alone in your car, and you make a grab for my hand. Then in a sea of goodness the rush came over me. That little moment grew lavishly into these massive tentacle bearing thing and I allowed it to suffocate every pore even if I already knew how it would end.
If only god did not give me this disability of falling. Constantly free falling, constantly allowing boys to look into the depths of my soul only to find it filled with other small bits and pieces of those before them. Scraps of paper with animated doodles, photographs with Neruda’s line scribbled on the tattered edges, sound bites taken from beaches when you threw me in frigid water and I called you a dick, and times when your cautious fingers pulled my hair back from rambunctious nights. It’s useful for dwelling on from time to time when the G train gets all boring, but the memory bank is getting full and I’m starting to forget my name. It’s quite possible that I should put a ban on that thing in between my lungs with a tall black gate to prevent trespassers. It’s quite possible that boys my age are never into anything slightly hinted with a taste of commitment should ease some of my trouble. But how will I remember that I am alive?
Never could explain it properly, but I felt the most alive after seeing you walk away from it all. That night, my mascara ran and I didn’t wash my face on purpose because it’s something you would tell me to do. I sat there on the edge of my bed facing my windows of the vast city we lived in and pinpointed the spots we conquered. I thought about the missed opportunities to make it right, and that’s when my eyes closed and stained my pillows. The next day came and so did the bitter-sweet realization that we had something incredibly special, incredibly ours. I sat up in my bed with the white comforters soothing my pale skin that desperately needed sun, and just stared out through my windows to that vast city of grey and if it wasn’t for you it would’ve never been conquered.
It would just be multiple dirty sidewalks with yesterday’s newspapers adding decoration for the passersby-ers. Forget about missed opportunities - we didn’t waste a single moment. We took the late night walks, water balloon fights, early morning tender kisses, and electric silent moments and ran that red light trying to slow us down, and realized it was us who didn’t care what happened on the way. We did that every day until the car’s tank went empty. And just like the romantic that I am, it forced me to reconsider if I really am one. Maybe, I just needed to get broken in and the blood pumping to give my brain some air. This imagination of passion I once sought after was real and the hurt hung from very limb on my fragile body and the lining of my insides pleaded for mercy, as proof. It was something much bigger than I. And it was you who knew within moments, of seeing me walk into class late and ask for a pen since mine fell into the toilet, my true potential.
Does it need more? Is it too sappy? Thoughts/Comments please.