Carson
Carson, it has not even been a year since your heart has stopped beating.
I'd like to think
I could handle the touch of your skin to simply never be felt by the tips of my fingers again. If only that was all.
But your skin will never be felt by any other, be it me, or another person, any person. Your family, your friends, another lover, again.
The hardest part is to imagine how you must have felt, when you died alone. You must have been scared. I was recently in a car crash, and I know that feeling now...that feeling, of, well. You know, ''I am going to die.'' And when I survived it, I suddenly understood. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I can't. I cried in a museum where we last spun around together. The exhibit was no longuer of machines. The machines had been replaced by giant cadavers.
Carson, I wrote down many of our moments in a journal. I archived you when we first met. I found us worth reminiscing over. You may have been a chaotic artist, but so am I, and I felt proud every time I was worthy of your affections to me. A rare kiss on the cheek when we parted in winter. Your arms around me on long nights in the darkness. Your compliments and words of kindness whispered like secrets. I now have a lock of your hair in a glass bottle, in a box. A lock you asked me to cut when you were breathing. It used to be on a shelf. I had to leave the room where I kept it. I had to escape the continent and go as far as possible because I could not look at it.Maybe someone else could have. But not I. I simply could not sleep on the same mattress where you had told me your deepest secret yet. I couldn't play the guitar that you gave me in the metro anymore. Because all the songs seemed to be about you. I couldn't keep pointlessly and painfully trying to stop painting your soul every time I made a portrait.
I often daydreamed, and sometimes, night dreamed, up until you died, of us getting married. Now I don't have that dream anymore.
It seemed like an unlikely fantasy, something to brighten my day with when I felt lonely. But your death has rendered it impossible.Its funny, I accepted that you ate meat even though I disapprove. I wanted to meet your parents in a better way than you had met mine. I..
Our last moments together were touching. OUR LAST MOMENT WAS A KISS, And I am so, so, so very thankful of that. You gazed down at me with your sleepy, brown eyes. You had shaved your beard, so I could finaly see that stoic face of yours. Carved like some statue from the age of Mozart. A genius with skin too smooth for the ample talent in his bones. And you kissed me. Tenderly. Softy. A privilege. It was rare that you kissed me standing up. It was rare that you kissed me with clothes on. ''See you later.'' You said. It was funny, because, you were headed for a plane. It's funny, because, I will never get. to. see. you.
again.
You grew plants in your garden.
I ran away because I knew I couldn't film weddings all summer. I tried the month you died, and it was like crushing glass that had already cracked at its capacity.
C,est pas tant le marriage que j'envie. c'est pas la celebration en tant que telle. C'est le fait que la personne de l'autre coté du podium,
celle que tu aimes, sois encore en vie.
But you were in love with a mutual friend, a friend who tied a noose around her throat in Vancouver. You told me one night, where we were just silhouettes, by the window of my mezzanine, that you had deeply been in love with her. Yourwordswerethefollowing :: ''The woman I have felt the truest love for is ..... is.....dead.'' It was so hard for me to hear it, of course. I think, if there was a moment that tested our kinship, it was then. Because I comforted you, instead of being jealous. I could not feel jealousy. It was so much more important to show you kindness. I guess I had learned to love you.
Carson, you asked me if Cristine knew that you were special. You asked me if she knew how much you had cared. This is what you carried, this is what you carried, I presume, everywhere.
It is something I understood then. But now, I understand it better, because now I carry it everywhere too.
I carry it into every relationship. Saying ''I love you'' too much, and holding on a little too long in important moments. Its to make up for your loss. Its to make up for all the times I never had the guts to show you.
Now, I will never now. Will never know what you would have said, had you known.
Did you know?
I'd like to think
I could handle the touch of your skin to simply never be felt by the tips of my fingers again. If only that was all.
But your skin will never be felt by any other, be it me, or another person, any person. Your family, your friends, another lover, again.
The hardest part is to imagine how you must have felt, when you died alone. You must have been scared. I was recently in a car crash, and I know that feeling now...that feeling, of, well. You know, ''I am going to die.'' And when I survived it, I suddenly understood. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I can't. I cried in a museum where we last spun around together. The exhibit was no longuer of machines. The machines had been replaced by giant cadavers.
Carson, I wrote down many of our moments in a journal. I archived you when we first met. I found us worth reminiscing over. You may have been a chaotic artist, but so am I, and I felt proud every time I was worthy of your affections to me. A rare kiss on the cheek when we parted in winter. Your arms around me on long nights in the darkness. Your compliments and words of kindness whispered like secrets. I now have a lock of your hair in a glass bottle, in a box. A lock you asked me to cut when you were breathing. It used to be on a shelf. I had to leave the room where I kept it. I had to escape the continent and go as far as possible because I could not look at it.Maybe someone else could have. But not I. I simply could not sleep on the same mattress where you had told me your deepest secret yet. I couldn't play the guitar that you gave me in the metro anymore. Because all the songs seemed to be about you. I couldn't keep pointlessly and painfully trying to stop painting your soul every time I made a portrait.
I often daydreamed, and sometimes, night dreamed, up until you died, of us getting married. Now I don't have that dream anymore.
It seemed like an unlikely fantasy, something to brighten my day with when I felt lonely. But your death has rendered it impossible.Its funny, I accepted that you ate meat even though I disapprove. I wanted to meet your parents in a better way than you had met mine. I..
Our last moments together were touching. OUR LAST MOMENT WAS A KISS, And I am so, so, so very thankful of that. You gazed down at me with your sleepy, brown eyes. You had shaved your beard, so I could finaly see that stoic face of yours. Carved like some statue from the age of Mozart. A genius with skin too smooth for the ample talent in his bones. And you kissed me. Tenderly. Softy. A privilege. It was rare that you kissed me standing up. It was rare that you kissed me with clothes on. ''See you later.'' You said. It was funny, because, you were headed for a plane. It's funny, because, I will never get. to. see. you.
again.
You grew plants in your garden.
I ran away because I knew I couldn't film weddings all summer. I tried the month you died, and it was like crushing glass that had already cracked at its capacity.
C,est pas tant le marriage que j'envie. c'est pas la celebration en tant que telle. C'est le fait que la personne de l'autre coté du podium,
celle que tu aimes, sois encore en vie.
But you were in love with a mutual friend, a friend who tied a noose around her throat in Vancouver. You told me one night, where we were just silhouettes, by the window of my mezzanine, that you had deeply been in love with her. Yourwordswerethefollowing :: ''The woman I have felt the truest love for is ..... is.....dead.'' It was so hard for me to hear it, of course. I think, if there was a moment that tested our kinship, it was then. Because I comforted you, instead of being jealous. I could not feel jealousy. It was so much more important to show you kindness. I guess I had learned to love you.
Carson, you asked me if Cristine knew that you were special. You asked me if she knew how much you had cared. This is what you carried, this is what you carried, I presume, everywhere.
It is something I understood then. But now, I understand it better, because now I carry it everywhere too.
I carry it into every relationship. Saying ''I love you'' too much, and holding on a little too long in important moments. Its to make up for your loss. Its to make up for all the times I never had the guts to show you.
Now, I will never now. Will never know what you would have said, had you known.
Did you know?