Let us say Goodbye

Let us say goodbye then,

You and I.

Let’s walk away, and begin to forget.

The kisses, of course,

And the remembering -of firsts and quirks, a handful of dates.

Let us put behind us our secret knowledge,

And all those times you dropped a kiss on the tip of my

nose.

The first time I ever wrote a love letter, I titled it ‘This is not a love letter’

And put it in caps, to emphasize how much it was not a love letter.

Let us obliterate the memory of that;

Leave it to the impersonal web of pixels and circuitry,

And the people who will stumble upon it one slow afternoon at work.

Let us erase the last traces of

That feeling in my chest when you laugh,

And how you call me ‘bitch’ with great affection.

Let’s rub away at the kisses

Till their last vestiges are wiped off the corners of our lips.

Let us kiss strangers till their tongues take away the electric of

Your tongue on my lips

And my lips on your fingers,

And your fingers playing a riff

In the dark.

Let’s forget the time you kissed my damp eyelashes (surprising yourself),

And pulled out the sting.

The world will not cease to turn,

And nothing will have been lost.

Except- a few brief hours

Where my hand on your chest was yours.

Nothing except laughing hysterically as we plotted murder,

and talked over each other, trying to win.

Nothing but staring at pixelated smudges on screens

Till our heads ached.

Nothing except the wind on our backs as we ambled home,

A happy tangle of limbs.

So you see it would be easy.

Let’s not make a fuss now.

Let’s not ascribe this affair undue importance

So the stars did not align for us

(They don’t align for anyone, you fool.)

The gods did not send any angels our way

(We never prayed for them, you see.)

Everything fades after a while,

Even memories, even pain, even something that came very close to being

Love.

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Postcard Evening

It’s like there’s a part of my brain that always has you on its mind. There’s a corner that’s always tuned to you. Once in a while I remember it, and I look at it, and there you are. Right now, typing this, I’m sitting curled up beneath a red rug that I have ‘borrowed’ from the roommate for the time being. The roommate is hardly ever home, and her cat is beginning to love me more. Already he follows me around instead of her (it’s because I actually feed him). Anyway, I’m curled up on the air-mattress, as comfy as you can get on an air-mattress. The giant tabby cat is curled up, pressed against my feet with his back facing me. He’s quiet, satisfied, and he flicks his tail from side to side, erratically, like he’s keeping time with the music. I only just realized that the tail is a muscle a few days ago. It’s one of those things you know, but don’t know. So the tail is a muscle, like certain other things are muscles.

Here is what I do sometimes: I go to Grooveshark, and I click on you, and I click on ‘play station’. It’s a comforting thought that I can play you like you’re a radio whenever i want. Right now ‘Crush on you’ by Springsteen is drawing to an end, the tinny sound through my speakers, turning my room into an old-time cafe with a jukebox. I like having this option to play your station. It makes me feel safe, and warm- the way a fire in the fireplace makes your soul feel warm, as the flames leap up and lap at the wood.

I want to write you a letter. “Dearest”, it would start. I want to write it in curling handwriting at the back of a post-card. but i won’t because I’ll forget, and we talk too much on the phone anyway, and where’s that letter I was promised?

I’m reading ‘American Gods’; it’s interesting. It’s nice, this feeling of being wrapped up in a story. I’d missed it. I’ve missed you. I’ve forgotten how to kiss you, but maybe I’ll rediscover it when we meet. Through the prickliness of your ‘stache, or perhaps not.

‘Whiskey in the jar’ is playing now. I’m going to get back to my book.

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i am falling in love with my boyfriend from about half a world away. it feels strange, and surprising, and this odd contented happiness is quite disconcerting. i sort of of want to slap myself.

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In fragile things

Who’s to say what happiness is?

I could never have predicted (despite all the predictions I made)

that you would be so close.

That you would nestle – like the word last read in a half-read sentence-

deeply, firmly, lightly embedded.

I play with chopping blocks,

and fixatives.

With resin.

Bloody hearts may lie strewn across my spotless white bench.

It gives off the faintest smell of formaldehyde

(-makes me light headed sometimes,

but nothing to compare with – no matter, that’s sop.)

And who’s to say that happiness cannot be found

In the rustle, as pages brush their bodies against each other for a moment,

In the middle of a story-

About October telling stories,

As February-fussy, timid- sulks,

and April sucks her dainty fingers clear of innards,

while May takes her side.

And I, I dream at the back of my mind,

About a wondrous, terrifying August.

On an evening, where the skeletons of trees look in through my window,

as I sit inhaling the hot breath of my brown-slatted-heater.

Fingers stained with chocolate that arrived in the mail today

(near a month too late).

Bearing solemn, sincere advice on a background of blue,

it brought with it the hope of a new year.

I listen to a pink moon sing,

And curl up by my heap of warm, fresh, laundry.

Who would have known that we would come to know

each other, from half a world away.

Through tangles of invisible wires,

and calling plans that rob us blind.

Who’s to know that happiness lies here?

In fragile things.

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This is how you lose her

With small disappointments and petty rejections that seem meaningless at the time. With every unreturned gesture and unreciprocated expression of love. With each time she decides that the answer you will give her is a no, and lets the question decay somewhere at the back of her mind. With every time you push her away a little bit further. With every time she hesitantly makes herself vulnerable, and you leave her cold, and feeling stupid. With each time you are callous enough to let her simmer in her difficult moods because it’s easier. With each time she meets someone she could be attracted to. With each passing day as she slowly stops thinking about the future, and comes to expect that there won’t be one. She has given you her puny little heart, and every day as she learns to brush things aside, say a little less, care a little less, this is how you lose her.

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17 Things Running Teaches You About Life

Reblogged from Thought Catalog:

1. To be good at anything, you have to put in the time and effort no matter how talented you are.

2. Your abilities and someone else’s abilities are not the same. Do the best that YOU can do.

3. If winning is your objective, realize that you have to work 10 times harder than the next best person.

4. No matter how hard you work and how prepared you are, disappointments will happen.

Read more… 202 more words

Epiphanies abound

Like this:

T: well long distance is one thing that’s working for you
R: haha how on earth is it working?
T: you can choose how much you want to keep in touch. it’s all in your hands really. if you actually wanted to, you could go incognito
R: maane? just drop out of his life without a word?
T: err mane just cut him off. i’m not saying it’s an option but that’s the thing with long distance. you’re not prompted by phsyical proximity anymore.
R: yeah. i think that’s too mean. but. it is an option.
i don’t know. i think i just realized how much of my mental space he eats up and how much i    DON’T want that. it’s not his fault. it’s mine. and its because i’m intense and obsessive. but i really can’t afford to lose my focus now and i really have. so i need to get shit together and consciously think about him less, just spend less energy on him
T: well said. if i was there i’d pat your head :P
T: i think the fact that you’re thinking this way means you’re seeing the larger picture
R: haan. i think its about time. i’ve been so scared of the future, i think i’ve been clinging to N as one good sorted thing in my life. but you know. here’s the thing. a guy can;t make you magically happy. even if he’s the right guy.
and ignoring my problems and just all the SHIT i have to figure out with gradschool and the future and whatnot won’t go away by focusing on N.
R: so. i’m not doing that anymore. i mean i just realized that i *was* doing that.
T: i’m glad. you have to balance the head and the heart
R: yeah
T: and being abroad and on your own, you need to do that even more

In other news: I ate escargot! It was too drenched in olive oil, and butter, and cheese for me to really make out anything of the flavour than it was rubbery and reminded me of mussels. Also, I have realized that I hate steak and I’m never going to put myself through eating it again. In even more news, I’m on the lookout for housing again. If anyone lives in Boston/Cambridge and is reading this right now, Heeeeelp. I do the dishes, and take care of floods, and cook once in a while. I’m generous, and make a mean chicken noodle soup. I’m also cute (no, really) and love babies, and animals, but don’t own a pet. I’m smart and a great listener and am willing to amuse you with music or horrific anecdotes and witty pop culture references, if that’s your kind’ve thing. Haaaalp.

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jumble

life is doing a ‘moon river’ right now. in a jumble: pancakes were given and eaten. with blueberries and strawberries and maple syrup as accompaniment. breakfast at tiffany’s, and morning glory were watched. new lab manager is an adele lookalike and likes to bake for fun. she brought in a bundt cake two days ago, and her attempt at jaffa cakes with white chocolate and bitter chocolate and bits of orange jelly. boss (henceforth known as Dean) turns around to see my mouth smeared with chocolate and one grubby hand in the ziplock bag full of crumbs. he’s too amused to be disapproving.

i had one of those discussions with Dean that you could label “deep”. we talked about religion and god, and sentences like “because i know that god sees me, and i am loved” were said unironically. by a near 7 foot tall man who’s known to reply to “i have a question” with “i have an answer”. people surprise you. they continually surprise me, at least. i told him about getting inked soon, and he told me about his brother who’s a chef and all tatted up. i was expecting judgement and condemnation. instead i got mild ribbing, and genuine respect. #whatthefuck.

i perform western blots and cry over them till hallelujah happens. only half a hallelujah though. i eat-drink lots of bread and soup, and fry salmon and eat it cold over the granite kitchen counter, standing up. first boston sleepover happens, homecoming minus the sex. sex does not happen- i’m sorry, vagina. i seem to have developed a penchant for the word “vagina”. this could just be me acting out after having spent all of high school being repressed and thinking that “stupid” was a bad word.

or it could be my attempt to drive away my newfound admirers in dubai (yes, i see you and i have been told. what are you doing here, child? do you want to be corrupted?)

trip to rodney’s secondhand bookstore happened. i had an almost-indie moment with a scruffy beanie wearer in a mustache. we smiled and talked about the book i wound up buying- the history of the blues which came before the pbr series. i walked away when he buried his nose in the musty smell of the film section.

there is this bizarre thing that happens and it is this: every time i (mini)fight with my boyfriend, one of his friends emails me. the two are completely unrelated, but it is a true.

anyway, i am sick of this last stretch of winter and i long for spring. tanki comes over in two days and i will basically be living on caffeine very soon. i am too tired to be excited anymore, so i am glad she’s coming on a friday.

in other news, passionfruit orange guava juice is the shit.  in case you were wondering what was with the incoherent mess of words, i’m falling asleep right now,and trying to put off taking a shower.  thank you for reading, goodnight.

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Every little hair knows your name

So today I discovered that my relationship has been built on a foundation of deceit, theft, memory loss, weed and alcohol.

Well, you know what they say…. actually, I don’t think they’ve come up with a saying for this yet.

In other news from the week:

One of the grad students from work put up this Facebook status on Friday-

Intern tells her version of Genesis today:

“Eve eats the poison apple of temptation, and then God gets angry, and they are naked, and God casts them out of paradise and they need to work. Oh, and then they have lots of babies or something.”(5 minutes later)

“Clearly I am a heathen!”

(After posting this) Intern: “This is so embarassing. Public shaming. Hang on. Isn’t that what they do to heathens? Public shaming or something?”
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Also, A mentioned in a thread : Yesterday, R was on Skype, and I told her I could see Facebook reflected in her spectacles. She said– ‘sums up a generation.’ Truer words were never spoken. Ki pathetic.
The person in both instances was me, of course. For some reason everyone at work knew it was me because in their words- no one else would use the word ‘heathen’. The second I only bring up here to convince you that I am not actually a blithering idiot.
In less useless news, I have discovered Jens Lekman, a Swediesh indie pop artist. Your arms around me may just be the best thing I’ve listened to this side of alternate since The Stray Birds. His voice reminds me a little of Morrissey from The Smiths.
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