Can you feel it through the city smog?
Of course you can!
This is all vibration
And nothing against the city
But the smog could not kill these thoughts
And the thoughts come in waves that
Emanate toward your heart
And I am all flailing limbs when I speak with intentions to love you,
And clammy hands
And you are all
gentle stroking of my hair
And loving touches of my spine
And I crave to rip into the muses of your brain
The way a werewolf would rip into your heart
But I am no werewolf
And you are no prey
And together we are two people
Sharing bits of soul and purpose
And it hurts so much to love you so hard
My father told me the story of his youth
And how he’s grown old and his father has died
And how he wishes he could remember all of the moments from his “golden years”
“Those were the days, man.” He said.
And I looked up at him, teary-eyed
And thought about how sad everything feels now; even if I can find joy in certain, perfectly lit, almost too-good-to-be-real moments.
Like a photograph.
And if I’ll remember these days as my “golden years.”
And what happens if I don’t¬¬—
If everything I remember is gray and still, like a poorly lit room during a storm that’s lasted days after days after days.
And then we sit there laughing our guts out,
Like everything is okay when it’s not.
And I turn away and my thoughts wander to the same old soundtrack.
The one of monachopsis.
The one that sings about how difficult life is when you can’t pretend you’ve found the meaning in it, or hold it together just one more day.
The symphony’s sweetest sound is when lyrics are tied together in just the right knot.
My whole life is dedicated to being loud. Being desperate. Being boisterous and discombobulated. Laughing obnoxiously just makes the joy more real. My laughter can speak for me. Believe me, you’ll know when my smile is real. It’ll blind you like the sun. It will sparkle like snow lying on the pavement beneath the moon. My wide grin and starry eyes can melt the hearts of many. And sounding conceited is not something I’m afraid of because speaking up intrigues people. I will yell from rooftops and scream from the sky with words like “I love you”. Beauty isn’t always soft with pale skin and pink roses. Sometimes those roses smell harsh and have thorns that will cut up your palms. And sometimes yelling out in pain feels a lot better than laughing so loud your stomach hurts. That’s just realistic. And so am I.