I keep insisting I am not a romantic, and I'll hold it to my last vapours on this Earth, but if I had to be honest I'd tell you that time sings a different tune. I keep insisting I am not a romantic; no, it's just romanticism - you know, Mary Shelley? Poe? Byron? We've been through this. You asked which author I related to and I said my depths could only ever be contained by a whole artistic movement, motherfucker.
Art for art's sake was theoretical; it crumbles at your sight. I'll bet that Keats would have killed for a look at your face. I've always been good with descriptions but if I tried painting you with my syllables, I'd risk inaccuracy. How's this; your mind is starlight, and it blinds so sweetly that I've been teaching my fingers to read Braille (I'd rather my eyes rot than to stop looking). No, you see, this is a literary exercise - I am not a romantic.
But this piece is not about you, although it seems like everything is, lately. Whoever gave you permission to slip your name into apples and the hollow of a throat and the dirt in my hands can go right to hell.
I was born in New Year. I don't keep aces under my sleeves, but The Fool is tucked tightly around my right wrist and I hold Death in my left hand. I've got a face that looks too young, cheeks still round enough to grab between a steel thumb and an iron index. Someone said I had the perfect hands to fish fallen rings from sewer drains, and that's what I've been doing lately. You know, the other day I found five different wedding rings between the metal bars of the drains, and I haven't stopped wearing them since. Who knows how many people I'm engaged to, now.
You know, there are a thousand versions of me who don't exist. You know, I wonder why I am the version who remains.
And it all comes back to romanticism; the other day I walked out of the metro station, drenched in rain, and my favourite song was playing in a shitty stereo. I thought, 'this has got to mean something', but I was wrong (as much as I hate to say that); it's already worth something to me, and maybe that's enough. Maybe meaning was made to be found stretching thin fingers through the drain, soaked in rainwater and feeling so bare I might be naked to this city.
I am not a romantic, but maybe some meaning was made to be found in you.
not a serious piece, more introspective & rant-y than anything else. u guys do seem to love 2nd person romance so eat my heart whole, please and thank you