TO THE PEOPLE I THOUGHT I COULD LOVE
I sent you a photo, and you told me that you appreciated the fact of it once having existed, and that there was still beauty in its destroyed remnants.
never caught your last name
When I was laying by your side, tracing the tattoo over your heart, you were already thinking of replacing me. You said that maybe we all just wanted to be held, to be loved. And I couldn’t hate you for finding me replaceable. After all, I was just a fleeting dream in the grand scheme of things.
I still see you in the reflections of a glittering crucifix. Ironic, isn’t it? A symbol of religion that reminds me of our sins. The way it would sway above me and catch the rays of a wilting sun. The way it sparkled in the dim light of your living room, as you strummed the guitar with an apologetic murmur of laughter.
Bare skin against skin, hands tangled in sheets, but you’d pause to cup my cheek and call me beautiful. Your thumb caressing the back of my hand, a fist full of hair, and an absentminded kiss to the forehead. If we’re meant to be strangers, why do we fit together like this?
I got used to seeing you leaning against a railing at that icy intersection. I got used to the comfort of your arms around me and the warmth of your voice filling the room. In two weeks, we found solace in our make-believe domesticity. It was midnight, and as I picked up my coat, you said you were sad to see me go, but that you hadn’t fallen for me. Yet. I laughed, and let you walk me out.
After another day of wandering the city, looking for something that neither of us could bring ourselves to voice, you led me by my hand to your balcony, and we watched the sun fade behind the buildings. That night, behind the drawn curtains, between glimpses of the city’s orange lights, you said you’d miss me. For the last time, I ran my hands through your hair, and pressed my lips against yours. For the first time, you asked me to stay the night. In the haze of winter's breath, six hours before my flight, you followed me down to the subway toll booth, and held me as though there were a thousand words left unsaid.
You said you hadn’t fallen for me yet. What’s the answer now, dear stranger?
* * * * *
C.M.
The sun sets painfully slowly. The golden cast of the window on the couch seems to be burnt into the fabric. Slowly melting its way down the cushions, the floor, then into nothing at all. Maybe it’s because it once was a timer for when we’d see each other next, or maybe the sunset just brings out a deep sadness in me; but every time the sun sinks below the horizon, it drags something in me down with it.
Yesterday, I found the rock I picked up at the beach. The beach where I slipped and stepped into the saltwater, and where you took your first and last photo of me. You once told me that you never delete photos, even the painful ones. Does that mean you'll keep remembering me? Because I still remember your smile lighting up your face, and the intonation of your voice when you told me that you had missed me, in spite of everything. I think I fell in love with you the second time that day, but I never told you that.
I don’t miss you anymore. But you’re always in my thoughts. And just as you keep all your ex-lovers in photographs, I keep mine in writing.
I wish I could stop writing about you. But you've seeped into every crevice of my life. Like a spilt cup of coffee seeping into a notebook and making the inked pages bleed. No matter how much it dries, it’s forever stained. You’ve ruined me, do you know that? And despite it all, I'm still thinking of your bedroom lights, how you asked me to stay, and the morning sun on your cheek as your eyelashes fluttered awake.
The world reminds me of you: from the stars, choked out by the city lights; to the city itself, drowning in you.
* * * * *
homesick.
content warning: suggestion of non-consensual sex
The wind rushes by, and I swear I can see you in the crowd. I blink, and you’re gone. I still look for your car when I walk through your neighbourhood. I can’t help but think of you when I pass the cafe on my street. I don't know what I'd do if I ever saw you again. I don't think I ever should.
You picked me up, held my hand on the streets, and handed me your scarf when it began to snow. Under your dangling strings of twinkling lights, you called me breathtaking, but only when I was undressed.
When I told you no for the first time, I didn't know it would also be the last. You caressed my arm and pressed a kiss to my forehead, tearing something in me down. You told me, it's only fun if you're saying yes because you want to. But you also reminded me that you still wanted me that night.
And then I was sprawled on your bathroom tiles, wracked with the guilt of turning you down. Painting your rug a darker shade of blue, one droplet at a time. All the while, you sat in the kitchen, the furthest corner of your flat, so as to not hear even the muffled sounds of my pain. I flinched when you held me that night. I think you decided to leave me then.
I still look for you in the strangers that touch me. Still see you in their eyes when they look down at me. The shade in the lashes, the dimmed iris, and faint deep flames somewhere in the back. Speaking, not at me, but through me, already looking for the next girl to lie to in bed. And somehow, I'm still searching for you in them.
You told me you had feelings for me. You never said what those feelings were. Because you’d let doors slam onto me, but I still think of those whirlwind summer nights with you. The steam from the hot tub, rising into a sky full of imperfections; a glass full of something bitter and orange-sweet, clinking against the ice; and a crying gull in the distance, harmonising with the wind. And how you'd wrap an arm around me and point the other at the constellations tantalisingly out of reach. Now Orion is stained with your colour.
When your cologne was still lingering on my skin, we once passed a figure made of ice. By the next morning, when I walked by, alone, all that remained were shattered limbs resting atop a half-frozen puddle. I sent you a photo, and you told me that you appreciated the fact of it once having existed, and that there was still beauty in its destroyed remnants.
Maybe one day, I’ll feel the same about us.
AUTHOR: Rowen Lee
ARTIST: Zora Roberts is a first year at Brown studying art and computer science. She is probably 10 minutes late to her class right now.