"It’s all about money, not freedom. You think you’re free? Try going somewhere without money."
Bill Hicks (via learned—helplessness)
it’s december. it’s not the first time we’ve met
but this time is different. we sit in the back of a car
with our heads close together like we’re alone
even though our friends are right there. you
kiss me in public and i think of you in words
like want and keep and distance. unrealistic.
it’s january. you touch my cheek and say
this is exactly where your dimple is and i feel full
of light and fervor. i tell you: don’t fall for
anyone cooler than me this semester. i get
on a train back to new york, a plane to
heathrow. we both look back.
it’s february and you never call when you say
you will. we talk in circles all the time about
how much we like each other and how far away
we are and how much we like each other. we both
kiss other people and don’t mention it. i wait up
for you. lose sleep.
it’s march, and maybe there’s nothing left
to walk away from. i walk away anyway.
april showers bring may flowers. in my sleep
i start taking the petals off one by one, but it’s never
loves me, loves me not. it’s always loves her.
loves her not.
my best friend tells me the idea of having sex with
strangers is very unappealing to you right now. we both
come home in may and you start talking to me again.
you say, i didn’t meet anyone cooler than you all semester.
june and we kiss all over the city. no place
is safe from us. twice you tell me
we should just be friends.
twice it doesn’t stick.
in july you make plans to go halfway across
the world. you say you need a break from
romance. i tell you, be safe out there. i say,
don’t forget to change your contacts.
august in china is brutal. you text me, drunk out
of your mind, telling me you’re lonely. we’re friends
again, so i’m not allowed to mention how i can’t stop
writing poems about you. you tell me about all
the american things you miss. i don’t make the list.
once, you sat right next to me as i wrote you
a postcard that said: no matter what happens,
i don’t regret what we did. i still mean it."
"It’s going to be okay
because I have had you once and you had me,
and it was quite beautiful.
And I think someone else out there deserves the love that you have;
and if we ever find each other again one day,
then I hope you love me,
this place just tears every scab off
»diptychs« by tim youd, who retypes entire novels on single sheets of paper.
an extremely small part of me misses the rain