The place I end up inside you is flawless, the colors few and cool, their solidity unending. There is nothing simpler or cleaner than you in all of existence. You’re a light behind frosted glass. You’re a gentle and unseen metronome ticking the hours by, all the hours I’ve spent here, silently considerate not to leave the smell of my perfume or the scuff of my keds and turn you into something you’re not. The walls remain bare except for the sporadic flashes at the corner of my vision, tall letters in vector perfection: CREATED TO CREATE.
You are empty but for…
I’m not going to pretend we know each other, but I can’t pretend we don’t.
I wanted to make you the voice in my head since I’ve never had one, I wanted you to be my brother because nobody else wanted to be. I could never believe you when you told me you loved me, and I never understood how you felt about anything, really, or why. I feel shitty about all of that, and I want to be honest with you and tell you I’ve maybe been the person who looked at you least of all. I can’t see you because I can’t see myself anymore. I’ve only come to realize that in the last few days and it’s because despite everything, I never stopped believing we were the same.
Why is it so hard to know how to talk to you without breaking something?
I don’t particularly feel like it’s a coincidence your name backwards is need, you’ve never needed a fucking thing in your life.
I’ve been wishing you could tell me what any of these things mean. The pale blue glitter of the germs Matthew leaves on doorknobs from which you so love to suck. You feel it when Rachel seizes, it’s a flutter like the wings of a bubble gum pink house fly. Right now, you’re arranging horizontal slices of fruits and vegetables by hue and then size on a mirror between intricate candelabras carved from something opaque and white as milk. There is a thing you become that is black as charr and dances alone in a hallway painted the same matte color. What are you?
Between us, we have nothing but silence and ever-changing space. It changes, but there are parameters and limits, the bold walls of a toy box, the gold leafed edges of Heaven, the taped off floor of a gym or the stage, the dust of the library, and the anonymity of all of these. There isn’t much I can account for anymore but these interior landscapes. Created to create, the thing you create best is space. I’ve had enough time to wonder if they all belonged to you.
No one claims them, no one wonders what we’re doing there. Is that just more space? I might like existing, does it mean I’m not really an angel? How important might it be to maintain distance from meaning in order to remain real? Were we ever fucking real?
I’m stuck inside you like a joke, looking for ways to just say what I feel here. But one of the first things I understand here is that the reason you can’t be my brother or my boyfriend or the voice in my head is because you can’t even find your own. I wanted to help you, but nothing put us together anywhere. Now, I wait here like you love to wait, alone and so starkly obedient to a God that would make me do it for this long.
Jack says the truth is earned. We’ve worked hard, but we will starve if this is all the truth it earned between us. So maybe we should just start making some shit up.
Not for a lack of trying,