To show my psychotic side, I've written a little response to my beautiful Becka's last journal entry.
For you, BeckaDarling
Becka. Becka, her named engraved in my own. Becka, the muse hiding behind her own words. Becka, the only person that wanders in my thoughts. Becka.
Her infatuation with Crispin Glover and her knowlege of Prince is what drew me in. I stumbled across her through another friend's fantasy; I never realized that his would soon become mine. Our friendship began with naked girls, girls we wished we knew, wished were our friends. Now, she is who I think of throughout the day. She is the girl that replaced the millions of others I conversed with. Becka has become my imagination.
I find myself thinking of her when I wake up at 2:40am. I think about her bedroom and if it is anything like mine. I picture it pink with 1930's pin-ups on every wall. I see her in her bed, covered with goose-down feathers and pink egyptian cotton. I see her sleeping in a light pink chamise with baige lace lining the edges. I feel her raven curls ast they perch upon her pillow. I know where she keeps her cegarettes and her engraved silver case. I wish I could be next to her to smell her rose scented lotion the the back of her neck. I want to listen to the White Stripes with her as we fall asleep giggling about how cute Jack is.
She has become my first thought when I wake up. My pleasure thoughts throughout the day. She makes me think of my childhood, and how happy it was: conjuring up adventures in the backyard about pirates and princesses, kissing my bestfriends in the bushes behind the neighbor's house, going shopping ever weekend and on the way back, driving by the cut boys' homes. I can see it all in Becka's eyes; I hear it in her words.
I imagine her to have a voice like Natalie Merchant. I imagine her laugh to be infectious and her touch addictive. I see her walking down the street wearing a black mini skirt and red heals; her garter straps exposing themselves when the wind kicks up the back of her skirt. She lives in her black nylons with the stripe up the back, mimicking the old pany-hose of the 1940's: that is her defining piece of clothing, the accessory that makes Becka her.
And so I think: if distance wasn't an issue, and if we lived next door to each other, would we play Scrabble in the evenings and chase butterflies during the day? Would we drive by the cute boys' homes and makeout in the bushes behind her parents' house? Would I get to undo the black garters from the silk stockings and feel the porcelain skin underneath? Would we share our lipsticks and fabulous hats? Would we be companions until our old age? And the only answer I can see is: perhaps.
Love you always,
Delilah.
For you, BeckaDarling
Becka. Becka, her named engraved in my own. Becka, the muse hiding behind her own words. Becka, the only person that wanders in my thoughts. Becka.
Her infatuation with Crispin Glover and her knowlege of Prince is what drew me in. I stumbled across her through another friend's fantasy; I never realized that his would soon become mine. Our friendship began with naked girls, girls we wished we knew, wished were our friends. Now, she is who I think of throughout the day. She is the girl that replaced the millions of others I conversed with. Becka has become my imagination.
I find myself thinking of her when I wake up at 2:40am. I think about her bedroom and if it is anything like mine. I picture it pink with 1930's pin-ups on every wall. I see her in her bed, covered with goose-down feathers and pink egyptian cotton. I see her sleeping in a light pink chamise with baige lace lining the edges. I feel her raven curls ast they perch upon her pillow. I know where she keeps her cegarettes and her engraved silver case. I wish I could be next to her to smell her rose scented lotion the the back of her neck. I want to listen to the White Stripes with her as we fall asleep giggling about how cute Jack is.
She has become my first thought when I wake up. My pleasure thoughts throughout the day. She makes me think of my childhood, and how happy it was: conjuring up adventures in the backyard about pirates and princesses, kissing my bestfriends in the bushes behind the neighbor's house, going shopping ever weekend and on the way back, driving by the cut boys' homes. I can see it all in Becka's eyes; I hear it in her words.
I imagine her to have a voice like Natalie Merchant. I imagine her laugh to be infectious and her touch addictive. I see her walking down the street wearing a black mini skirt and red heals; her garter straps exposing themselves when the wind kicks up the back of her skirt. She lives in her black nylons with the stripe up the back, mimicking the old pany-hose of the 1940's: that is her defining piece of clothing, the accessory that makes Becka her.
And so I think: if distance wasn't an issue, and if we lived next door to each other, would we play Scrabble in the evenings and chase butterflies during the day? Would we drive by the cute boys' homes and makeout in the bushes behind her parents' house? Would I get to undo the black garters from the silk stockings and feel the porcelain skin underneath? Would we share our lipsticks and fabulous hats? Would we be companions until our old age? And the only answer I can see is: perhaps.
Love you always,
Delilah.
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♥