At this 'right now', this exact second - the one with the acrid smoke leaking from my cigarette and 'that' look in your eyes- I think you are the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen.
Beautiful like tragedy, like loving things that die.
Your eyes are wider than they were at 4:09, open wider than they will be at 4:11.
At 4:10, 'right now', thick notes roll off percussive piano strings, swirl through your bluest eyes. Inspiration and admiration are killing you backwards - making you more alive than you've ever been.
I looked up just in time to see the reflection of all the things you never meant to leave (but did), tear-blurred, the way you saw them, as they faded from your rearview mirror.
At 4:10, you are uncharacteristically eager, generous with your years dead secrets and your freshest newest knowledge. I inhale, shallowly. Press my body flat and try to camoflauge my distracting limbs and rude cigarette and clumsy clutter - so as not to scare off this thudding heart, tingling skin, aching chest.
Symptoms of being this alive.
When your teeth and toungue bequeath to me your memories, the stone faced receipt of years spent, I blink hard against the watery suggestions in my eyes. The ones that say i couldn't possibly deserve this.
At 4:11 I implore an inept pencil to request of paper the immediate capture of the taste and smell and the way we looked 'right then'. At that one moment when silent boys told stories and wordy girls lay silent in the dark. That 4:10 am when 'i' was 'we', when 'you' was indistinguishable from 'me'. we were alive, don't you remember how it hurt to feel so much? We were together.
Girls with their boys with their dogs, with their tomorrows and their somedays - we clutched the living things that photographs drop - throbbing bodies, beating hearts, percussive notes.
The things that stick to the insides of our eyelids, all the things that reappear each time we close our eyes. They are the things we only recognize once they are fading in the rearview mirror.
4:10 recognized. remembered. recorded. recovered.
Beautiful like tragedy, like loving things that die.
Your eyes are wider than they were at 4:09, open wider than they will be at 4:11.
At 4:10, 'right now', thick notes roll off percussive piano strings, swirl through your bluest eyes. Inspiration and admiration are killing you backwards - making you more alive than you've ever been.
I looked up just in time to see the reflection of all the things you never meant to leave (but did), tear-blurred, the way you saw them, as they faded from your rearview mirror.
At 4:10, you are uncharacteristically eager, generous with your years dead secrets and your freshest newest knowledge. I inhale, shallowly. Press my body flat and try to camoflauge my distracting limbs and rude cigarette and clumsy clutter - so as not to scare off this thudding heart, tingling skin, aching chest.
Symptoms of being this alive.
When your teeth and toungue bequeath to me your memories, the stone faced receipt of years spent, I blink hard against the watery suggestions in my eyes. The ones that say i couldn't possibly deserve this.
At 4:11 I implore an inept pencil to request of paper the immediate capture of the taste and smell and the way we looked 'right then'. At that one moment when silent boys told stories and wordy girls lay silent in the dark. That 4:10 am when 'i' was 'we', when 'you' was indistinguishable from 'me'. we were alive, don't you remember how it hurt to feel so much? We were together.
Girls with their boys with their dogs, with their tomorrows and their somedays - we clutched the living things that photographs drop - throbbing bodies, beating hearts, percussive notes.
The things that stick to the insides of our eyelids, all the things that reappear each time we close our eyes. They are the things we only recognize once they are fading in the rearview mirror.
4:10 recognized. remembered. recorded. recovered.
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muhaha.