How can I compete with that? I see he’s truly dashing, and that’s not me. I’m envious.
I see his eyes, they look fresh, cool. Not worried about the things to come. Full of love, full of passion. Full of himself too. A straight open eye. No blood in his. Soulful eyes. The kind of ones that look at you and you go crazy for, not mines.
And I look in the mirror to see my eyes. They look tired, bloodshut eyes. These eyes throw themselves like darts. They are scary, they are not soulful, they are downward spiteful, sad, like if they were hiding things inside, nothing nice inside of them, of course. They are not insightful.
And I can’t help looking at his gestures, a pose of assurance, even if he wasn’t made of that. He is hoping you to lay in his arms after sex, after making love. One of those which you choose and he doesn’t say anything about it. You don’t need to ask him what he feels about because you don’t need to know. You don’t need to know because you don’t want him to change that face. You know he’s yours. And you just don’t care about finding out because you’re intrampled by his gestures– and his smile.
But that’s not me. I don’t look happy. I can’t change my face, too much has happened to me and I can’t stop the flow of things going through my life and my head. Too many shit has happened in the last four years than in my entire life and everyday it looks as if everything went for worse. And I just can’t smile. Well, yes, I can, when I see you smile at my shit. Because I’m all full of it. My face holds steady in the same posture. A movement of distrust and happiness as my lips draw even lower when the smile dissapears in less than three seconds. That’s when I hear something I dislike. Then you will ask me to try and lift my spirits even if I can’t.
And his smile. I recognise it, he’s got a great smile. He looks great compared to me. You know he has a beautiful smiled stored for whenever he sees you. You are his light, and he poses that smile when he kisses you, or after you are in bed with him. A smirk of contempt, of a good life, even though everything sucks you’re still there. You recognise it. Your smile helps him raise his.
I just can’t smile. I just can’t. I wish I could. You laugh at the jokes and you draw that sly smile at me. And I know I will never get you to show me your teeth as much as he does. I rave frantically. And you look at me, you can’t understand. I wish you could. I don’t seem to make any sense.
His hands look strong enough as to frame your face with them as he’s about to stomp on you with his kisses. Hairy, strong hands. A man’s hands. Beautiful hands. Long fingers, a couple of rings in them. Tomorrow these hands will grab a guitar and sing beautiful songs for you.
Mine tremble because I have a medical problem, and you think I’m scared of you. I’m downright fucking sad. My fat fingers type in this keyboard separating from each other, they know, I know.
They will write scary things and mediocre poetry for you, nothing like that beautiful song you got from this guy. Not me.
His chest looks flat, no hair. Not a beer belly, plain flat. Beautiful abs. Not a sight of fat everywhere. He looks just like the beautiful washing board you wanted for a boyfriend. You can lay your head in his stomach, in his chest, he won’t mind. He has a lot of love for you. He seems to know and understand better.
I’m chubby. I have small breasts, like the ones you had when you were thirteen. I’m not flat as him. I’m lazy. You could lay your head on me, but it would seem like a real pillow. And you wanted that strong man. I shake, I shake my stomach. And it’s not that funny as it should. In another world, it would be perfectly understandable. Not in this one.
He fills you up with love for life.
I don’t know if I can keep living.
His head seems to work. He has a lot of thoughts. He has a future. He’s far away. He has his whole life planned. Whatever’s not planned he already took care of. Surprises will be all good things for him.
Mine doesn’t for some reason. I rant and rave.
Sadly, he’s not here anymore. He’s out there looking for other loves to replace you because he can’t see you. Maybe he’s dead, we don’t know. You still get a couple of e-mails and messages in your answering machine, from him. Telling you how much he loves you, and misses you. And you can’t forget him. You won’t forget him. You don’t want to. (”and all the things she said will fill your head/ she doesn’t need you” McCartney said once)
I am. But I just can’t call you more than once a day. And you’ll think I ignore you. You outgrew me eventually, because I know I love you but I’m not enough for you. So I’m an idiot. And I hope you for best. Because I was a gentleman and a mediocre at the same time. I gave you what little I had, and it was little so it was worth nothing.
And I saw you kissing him.
And I was truly unhappy. I could really die in that moment. I couldn’t get any lower. S. And I missed you. I miss you. I don’t know what’s up with you.
