Dear anyone,
Heartbreaking, shattering, crushing, blasphemous, bludgeoning, over-saturated. Don’t be surprised if we can’t be separated. Science needs a new invention to mend hearts or a swab test for tears, where a story is written by the chemicals in them. And the chemicals in them are only ones that I can create with my signature on them, my blood, and my distinction. Nobody else. Well, that is interesting. Cristian doesn’t want it to end like this. The story is written by an author who has no business writing it. Don’t be surprised if one night we’re looking at each other eye to eye, holding each other close, so close, so close, I can feel you brush your passionate breaths against my lungs that fill with air, and move your head. I feel you slipping away. And by now, the category 5 hurricane by all and any expert is said to have definitely slowed down. The eye has shrunk. Our eyes have shrunk. It isn’t a category 5 anymore and it won’t ever be a category 5. And sometimes, looking at the weather, I believe it will slow down. I don’t want it to. The chaos of it all is intriguing, inviting, warming. Sometimes, though, other times, I don’t believe it at all. Other days it’s category 6, maybe 7, 8, or 9. Category 20. And I feel this storm going up in numbers, up and up. It’s the size of the entire planet now. I’m the only weather reporter that believes this. I have hope in my math. Don’t believe in machines. I want to categorize 20 different parts of you that I fell in love with. Category 1, 2, 3, 4, 5: I love you. Your love is a hurricane; it comes and goes in September. It came and went. It went. 6: Your honesty is like powerful gusts of wind that rip trees from their roots, that blow stop signs from their post, rip roofs off house tops. 14: I love how much we loved each other. It’s like, I thought it was real. Maybe it was. Maybe it isn’t. I have so much to give. You wanted to give, at least still do. I don’t know. 21: Please don’t do this. I don’t want to feel like an acting lesson, your only Oscar. Don’t if I couldI’d bring a version of you back from a time machine so I could talk to them about the future-you. Maybe I could understand better, feel better. I regret anything I did that brought me here. Did I say too little, say too much, love too hard, love too soft? Was it me crying? Was it my silence at 5am? I didn’t mean to. I’m… I’m going. Well, I was… I was going through some things. These things now are different things, though. Hurricane Artois. They say don’t chase what you can’t catch. I caught feelings. You caught my heart. I chased. Don’t be surprised if you can’t find something like this. Nobody can do what I do, like me. Not even close. Can’t extinguish flames with a whisper. Don’t be surprised. Don’t be surprised when I don’t stop. If you jump, I jump over frontiers written in bold text saying “invade me” with invisible feeling into bewitching allure of where my heart is kept in your cage, backstroking through the perfect sound waves where each word spoken fits in my ear, words where you made me imagine us together with wrinkles. I was so drunk when we were together. My submarine descends into our own fucking galaxy (I’m STILL HERE!!!) of silk and honey being handwoven by broken hands (20th time) into this fucking perfect perfection we perfected. I was so hypnotized. Was that an eclipse or did the moon kiss the sun and did the sun close her eyes while he did? I was captured by your solar flare, tunnel vision, tunnel feeling. The moon and sun deathly slow, slow dance to the Spanish passacaglia, raising goosebumps on your arms. We jumped to the moon. The moon jumped to the sun. The sun burned
hellhound.