En Absencia (aka Love Only Realized After)

I shouldn’t have disappeared the way I did.  I have never felt such a connection, such a symmetry to someone else in this world. It was never so easy to share my life with a woman, not just the center, but the dark and torn edges we often hide in shame from others. The smallest conversations with you were an adventure, you came to me and remained so unexpected like a dream. And with the brilliance of your thoughts and kindness of your heart, a part of me wondered if I hadn’t made you up in one. 

The days and moments we spent together still haunt me, in a beautiful but far too painful of a way. Even now I can’t think of a single use for my hands than to hold yours. My mouth and tongue feel pointless no matter who else wants to listen. The world has become such a stranger to me, and though I miss you more than these little words could ever contain, I can’t bring myself to bring you back into my life as just a friend. You mean too much to me, and that box just can’t fit what my heart won’t filling it with. The maybe of us has gotten its answer, and while I want nothing more than for you to have everything and exactly what you desire from this broken world, it breaks me too much to be on the sidelines and a footnote in your happiness.

I’m sorry my love is too selfish to ever see you as anything else but my everything.

Playlist of the Unforgetful

Edging towards thirty has been something of a turning point, and I find myself drifting through the intersections of thoughts rather than cutting corners. My life has been one of examination (the unexamined rice is, after all, not worth Instagramming,) but to be honest I’m tired of analysis. To simplify humanity into mere cause and effect reduces our meaning, and I no longer care why a person is the way that they are. I only want to love them for it. A death to this gallows humor and finally choosing a side between optimism and nihilism. I’ve strived for education, for wisdom, to be seen as an authority and taken quite seriously. And now as I stare down from the crisp and dizzying heights, a cold and bitter envy grips my lungs. Now I wish to shed maturity and be a child again, to laugh because of what is funny and not politeness. To listen because it brings joy to others in being heard. To understand, not by cause and effect, but from empathy.

But it’s as Anais Nin said, “Writers live two lives. There is the living then the writing, the delayed reaction, the second tasting.”

Maybe this corner will turn into my own after taste of living rightly.

The Diary of Noel Edwards 12/6/2017

Women delight me.

I like their face, their shape, their eyes and subtle gestures particular to their sex. Of a specific caliber or class, I couldn’t possibly identify or name to be a favorite. I enjoy them all, femininity a la carte.

But my pleasure in them has never been so primal. Sex is a wonder in and of itself, but I’ve never been able to find joys or even the capacity to treat women as an object to be drained or sought for my mere enjoyment. To view the wonders of their lips and whispers as merely a source of a pleasure- a thing to be enjoyed and cast aside, or misused, I am incapable of. But I do enjoy them.

Monogamy is an atrocity to my affection. I can’t imagine settling for just one type of person every day. Alice is lactose intolerant, but still dabbles in yogurt. Makes funny faces at posters that seem over-indulgent, and spends most of our late night conversations worried about what the homeless are doing at that very moment. When we talk I feel my spirit wriggle free of daily conventionalities. As she describes the why’s as to her favorite kind of lipstick or misogyny, I’m able to let go of being over-sentimental, and laugh at the mundanity we all take so serious. Melissa is a different kind of liquor. Like my favorite kind of whiskey: tall, dark, and full of bad decisions. She sees the useless nature in all our useless endeavors. Cast a deadpan smile while she wiles the weekend morning away in pancakes and not-for-profit volunteering. Caring so much about the world, but refusing to let us know it. Bitter as lemons on a fresh wound, sweet as the aftertaste of scabs healing over.

They’re both so beautiful.

Then there’s Elsa, who I have no other attraction to other than the slender of her shape and attitude. A comely caramel for skin and a smile you could lie for- her eyes two coals that sit sharp like a pair of dice landing on snake eyes; deep black dots floating in a pool of milk filled with honey. Slender waist that drops like drapes into unforgiving legs, jeans that hug so snugly to the soft arches and tender dips of a shape that seems to be made for holding. Her voice has the gentle amplitude of money, powerful…but in your hands and deliberation, a bit worthless. She has no thought or words above the ordinary, and maybe her beauty is so blinding but, whoever needed intellectuals anyway?

Elsa, Melissa, Alice. They are all so beautiful. I want them each for their own reasons, but never for long or all at once. I can appreciate the delicate balance and attractiveness to their divisive characters. I could spend days with each of them, admiring all the facets of what makes them so unique in a world of copy pasted personalities. I love them for a while, under the gilded smiles of the moon and 4AM pillowed confession no Instagram or diary could ever fully reflect or comprehend. Alice, who reminds me to laugh because nothing is so serious. Melissa, full of bitter but still giving herself to a world that doesn’t deserve it. And Elsa, the beauty of beauty incarnate and made real.

Women delight me.

But only for a while.