theartofalmostlove-blog

[theartofalmostlove-blog]

ABOUT A BOY - spoken word

when you meet a boy for coffee, i dont suppose the correct etiquette is to be on the phone at the precise meeting time - on a fake phone call to calm your anxiety - and then hold your hand up in pretence of politely finishing the call. 

but he smiled at you anyway, stared at you as you spoke to quickly about things you hated and stuff you had to do that day whilst you drank your overpriced hot chocolate and he crumbed a croissant into his mouth.

and he asked you out again the next day, and you went. 

by the end of that week, you’d asked him to stay over and tried to make him watch your favourite movie - which is jurassic park by the way - and failed. You laughed with him and the cruelty of your housemates and the awful music stemming from down the stairs as you shared too much food - the first of many two for tuesdays with cookies and a bottle of...whatever. you made love that night too.

he told you not to be crazy. begged you not to be mental. you told him you’d have fallen for him only when you began to trust him so my mental.. ness was all down to him. that simple phrase has slipped his mind but not yours.

you went from the library to is that Sunday, and didn’t come home - a trend beginning. 

by the following tuesday the whirlwind had ended - his ex girlfriend had sort of fucked it up for you, and you allowed it, cried in front of him like he was breaking your heart and then asked him to come christmas shopping with you at the end of the week. don’t wanna lose a good one you told yourself. maybe he will get over it, you told yourself. you didn’t really understand then and now you do, but you don’t, but you tell yourself its logical, because he is logic, and he is still yours. sort of.

we stopped then, stopped the sex. but kept the laughs, the late nights, the netflix in bed, the cuddles, the crying, the gigs, the way to much food for two people. we kept it all. the perfection remained, the add on we dropped. 

gigs later, you sleep with his best friend to try and move on from the idea that he might change his mind as he sleeps with loads of girls, is bothered by your actions but says it the gross love bite he hates not the idea of me with him. the idea of him with all those other girls makes you sick to your stomach but he smiles so through the dragging pain, you do too. 

is this toxic? 

maybe, but doesn’t it feel good? yes. no point in acknowledging the toxicity but ignoring the roaring flame inside you that is ten different colours but only lights up for him. 

you become his best friend, his mother figure, his number one fan, his confidant.

months go past and the year comes to a close. one day you go over to dye his hair, you sit with him and his friend and eat junk food - as usual - and laugh at how they talk about girls in front of you like your one of them. You are curled up beside him under a sleeping bag his hand intertwined in yours rubbing your leg, in a non-sexual but completely electric way. you feel something you thought he’d stopped feeling.

the sex reappears and you are glad because you have both missed it. whether it be two horny just past teenagers being together or actually having sex with someone you do love - no matter how the definitions clash between you. 

you argue about why he stopped the whirlwind - he re-explains. you do understand, you do. But it doesn’t seem like an insurmountable obstacle to you and to him it does. you understand his mental illness but you are not in his mentality and you cannot question it. his problems feed off yours and vice versa. its a danger, but a safe one. 

you cry when he leaves, both times. you take him to the station the first time, waste revision time crying, cuddling, kissing even  - no explanation why our lips always touch. breakfast with his best friend - the one you slept with. the second time he cries too as you hold him tight and send him back home where he loathes the very air he breathes. 

you dress up, for a weekend of meeting his family, holding his hand and biting your tongue when you disagree. you make conversation and bond with his brother - who’s correct pronoun is she but no one is used to that yet and the family don’t know yet so you try and use both intermittently without starting something you aren’t a part of. you entertain his families questions about your future and you smile when they say they hope to reappear there. because you hope so too. 

you make a lot of love that weekend - not just physically but emotionally, psychologically you are right there. beaming for him. the comfort you feel between you doesn’t even need to be mentioned. 

there was a cliff metaphor - at the beginning i was strolling towards the cliff edge either to have a look over because I had heard so much about how you handled relationships and I wanted to have a look at the view. then I sat down on a bench and we chatted - when the whirlwind ended. Then throughout the following months I walked closer and closer until I had met the edge. I was enjoying the view but people kept standing in my way and I was frustrated because - I wanted to hold the view in my head and in my memory only for me. When you had to re-explain yourself I realised there was a barrier at the end of the cliff - it was a steep drop and in the interests of safety I was barred from going further.

But I wanted a picture of the view - the barrier was leaving lines on the likeness of it, it wasn’t instagram worthy. Somehow and some time through this I must have climbed the barrier, pushed out too far to get a picture of the view I so desired - and fell. I’ve fallen over the cliff now - I’ve hit my head and I have no desire to be airlifted back to safety. 

So now what?