creative non-fiction: forgetting is so long
forgetting is so long
pg, creative non-fiction, 836 words
careful readers will know what this is all about. the title comes from neruda. ♥
love is so short, forgetting is so long.
-- pablo neruda
There was a time, I admit, when I thought you would kiss me: the middle of the night, in a hallway, pulled into a hug that lasted a beat too long.
You said how grateful you were for my help and I laughed into your shoulder, just for a second. It's nothing, it's my pleasure.
Our hands were stained with splatter paint, stuck under our nails and in the crevices of our skin. We held them away from ourselves.
But our lips -- do you remember? -- our lips were clean. Mine were chapped, I think, as ever, but our lips were clean and soft.
I fell asleep trying not to think about it.
&
Don't get worked up, I know now you probably think I dreamed an epic dream where you kissed me.
That comes later.
This sleep was black and dreamless and deep. When my alarm went off after only a few hours, I realized there was something new about this day, something I was about to step out into.
I didn't realize it was you, right away. Does that make you feel better?
Even now, I'm not sure what I would want you to say to that.
&
It's curious, but have you noticed that when you talk to someone, it's hard to think about their lips? One doesn't think about the mechanism of voice, only the action, the arrival of words or song or nonsense.
When we talked about God and the Democratic Party and What We Were Going To Do After Music School, I didn't think about your lips. How they would feel on my own, or tracing the line of my clavicle, or on each well-callused fingertip.
At least, I don't remember. But maybe the reason those conversations have fuzz around them is because I was thinking about the machine that is the voice, the way your lips and your tongue shaped the syllables that twined their way about my ears.
Did we talk about the tympanic membrane? I think we did.
Your lips were epic enough for the tympani in my ears to sound off beats like the coda of a Brahms symphony, entirely too distracting for the subconscious.
There are things we don't tell ourselves.
&
It's not as though I am foreign to the concept of lips, to be so transfixed by them. I'm majoring in the use of my lips, essentially; I lock myself in a room for hours a day and train my lips and fingers to come together on a complex and archaic instrument.
One night we practiced next to each other for a few hours, and when I stopped to take a breath, I could hear you rehearsing tangos and harmonics. It started to rain and I knocked on your room to let you know.
When we headed back to the dorms, it had stopped raining.
Before I die, I didn't tell you, I want to be kissed in the rain.
I figured there would be another chance.
&
Once, only once, did I dream you kissed me. It was very adult and very intense, straight out of the movie theater of my subconscious.
We were talking, in the hallway, and suddenly you grabbed me by the wrist, pulled me inside my room, closed the door, and kissed me so hard you backed me up against the hard wood surface, your hands cupping the curve of my shoulders, resting on my waist. I could feel your nose mash against my cheek.
It didn't matter, though, there were your lips on mine, pressing against them hard enough to leave a mark.
In the dream I was yours and I woke up aching.
There are some dreams, sometimes, that one wakes up wanting to come true.
&
If I didn't notice the distance that still existed between us, forgive me, this is a world that delights in holding people at arm's length. How could I see you were so far away?
Anyway, how close can another person's lips get to another's?
Regardless of your answer, they are still two distinct pairs of lips.
&
When you asked me to stay away, you said it so nicely, but you wouldn't quite look me in the eye. You said it was just for a little while, just until life got less crazy.
I think you meant it. I was trying not to look at your lips.
That night I tried so hard not to cry myself to sleep. I succeeded.
Where, I told myself, sternly, are his lips going to get you?
When I woke up in the morning, I yawned into the sunshine, rolled out of bed, and stepped into a new day.
I meant it.
&
Sometimes you catch my eye when we pass in the halls and you smile and I think -- well, I try not to think, I guess. It's easier to wave, to smile, to quickly turn my head and run off to practice.
But sometimes, maybe it's just the day, or the particular curve of your smile, or the way they stand out against your teeth.
And then I can imagine, your lips on mine, your lips soft against my skin, tracing the line of my jaw.
I try, sometimes, not to think about it.
pg, creative non-fiction, 836 words
careful readers will know what this is all about. the title comes from neruda. ♥
love is so short, forgetting is so long.
-- pablo neruda
There was a time, I admit, when I thought you would kiss me: the middle of the night, in a hallway, pulled into a hug that lasted a beat too long.
You said how grateful you were for my help and I laughed into your shoulder, just for a second. It's nothing, it's my pleasure.
Our hands were stained with splatter paint, stuck under our nails and in the crevices of our skin. We held them away from ourselves.
But our lips -- do you remember? -- our lips were clean. Mine were chapped, I think, as ever, but our lips were clean and soft.
I fell asleep trying not to think about it.
&
Don't get worked up, I know now you probably think I dreamed an epic dream where you kissed me.
That comes later.
This sleep was black and dreamless and deep. When my alarm went off after only a few hours, I realized there was something new about this day, something I was about to step out into.
I didn't realize it was you, right away. Does that make you feel better?
Even now, I'm not sure what I would want you to say to that.
&
It's curious, but have you noticed that when you talk to someone, it's hard to think about their lips? One doesn't think about the mechanism of voice, only the action, the arrival of words or song or nonsense.
When we talked about God and the Democratic Party and What We Were Going To Do After Music School, I didn't think about your lips. How they would feel on my own, or tracing the line of my clavicle, or on each well-callused fingertip.
At least, I don't remember. But maybe the reason those conversations have fuzz around them is because I was thinking about the machine that is the voice, the way your lips and your tongue shaped the syllables that twined their way about my ears.
Did we talk about the tympanic membrane? I think we did.
Your lips were epic enough for the tympani in my ears to sound off beats like the coda of a Brahms symphony, entirely too distracting for the subconscious.
There are things we don't tell ourselves.
&
It's not as though I am foreign to the concept of lips, to be so transfixed by them. I'm majoring in the use of my lips, essentially; I lock myself in a room for hours a day and train my lips and fingers to come together on a complex and archaic instrument.
One night we practiced next to each other for a few hours, and when I stopped to take a breath, I could hear you rehearsing tangos and harmonics. It started to rain and I knocked on your room to let you know.
When we headed back to the dorms, it had stopped raining.
Before I die, I didn't tell you, I want to be kissed in the rain.
I figured there would be another chance.
&
Once, only once, did I dream you kissed me. It was very adult and very intense, straight out of the movie theater of my subconscious.
We were talking, in the hallway, and suddenly you grabbed me by the wrist, pulled me inside my room, closed the door, and kissed me so hard you backed me up against the hard wood surface, your hands cupping the curve of my shoulders, resting on my waist. I could feel your nose mash against my cheek.
It didn't matter, though, there were your lips on mine, pressing against them hard enough to leave a mark.
In the dream I was yours and I woke up aching.
There are some dreams, sometimes, that one wakes up wanting to come true.
&
If I didn't notice the distance that still existed between us, forgive me, this is a world that delights in holding people at arm's length. How could I see you were so far away?
Anyway, how close can another person's lips get to another's?
Regardless of your answer, they are still two distinct pairs of lips.
&
When you asked me to stay away, you said it so nicely, but you wouldn't quite look me in the eye. You said it was just for a little while, just until life got less crazy.
I think you meant it. I was trying not to look at your lips.
That night I tried so hard not to cry myself to sleep. I succeeded.
Where, I told myself, sternly, are his lips going to get you?
When I woke up in the morning, I yawned into the sunshine, rolled out of bed, and stepped into a new day.
I meant it.
&
Sometimes you catch my eye when we pass in the halls and you smile and I think -- well, I try not to think, I guess. It's easier to wave, to smile, to quickly turn my head and run off to practice.
But sometimes, maybe it's just the day, or the particular curve of your smile, or the way they stand out against your teeth.
And then I can imagine, your lips on mine, your lips soft against my skin, tracing the line of my jaw.
I try, sometimes, not to think about it.