» love archives // constellation: you.
  • love archives // constellation: you.

    Jul 16th • Posted in love, personal, writing

    Note: I am starting a new series where I post up some of my writing from long, long ago– mostly predating this blog. Most of this is raw, unedited work, but sometimes it’s nice to revisit a previous work and turn it into something more than what it once was. Enjoy.

    This piece in particular, is one written about my “first real adult love.”

    i.

    Perhaps this love story isn’t mine to tell. Right now it seems like the whole novel where everything ties in and leads to you, but maybe you are just a chapter in my little black book. Regardless, I’m not too sure how many books start off with the most endearing moment I’ve ever had in my entire life.

    After a tiny flirtation and charming back and forth, we had finally decided to make what I had only assumed was friends “hanging out” our first date. I can recall you starting up the stove top in the kitchen as you stared me down. My chubby ankles were dangling off the countertop, my legs swinging back and forth in a steady rhythm. I remember pushing a frizzy tendril out of my face, shyly meeting your intense gaze. I can’t even begin to fathom what was running through your head, only because the first thing that came out of your mouth was, “Are you happy with your life?”

    The majority of men do not dare ask most women this question for one reason: it opens up  Pandora’s Box. However, I was caught so off-guard that I started to stutter and all I could do was repeatedly stammer your question. “Am I happy with my life?” At the time, I didn’t really know. The old me was much more involved with her present than new me ever could be right now. The tone in your voice lingered, and for some reason I could tell that this was your way of asking me my life story. It was your way of opening up the conversation to more than just witty banter and asides– you were finished with the shallow and wanted to plunge into the deep end.


    ii.

    Have you ever had those nights where you just can’t get any sleep no matter how hard you try? Those nights where you sit and you think about your mortality and you come up with a list of reasons why tonight of all nights you’re going to die. Your neck aches in an odd, uncomfortable place. Or there’s a weird blister in an uncomfortable spot, and you have no idea where the fuck that came from. There’s an odd stinging sensation in your foot, or the fact that you can feel the blood pulsating through your veins, and working its way up your legs starting from your foot, pushing its way up your calves, to your thighs, and then your upper thighs, and then your buttocks. And then you feel tingling in your toes and the muscles in your body just ache and ache and there’s nothing left that you can do. And you throw up a little in your mouth, and your chest hurts, and you can’t breathe all that much. Your muscles clench and your vision is blurred and you can’t think straight. And honest to God,  you want to sleep, you really do. You’re just afraid that if you sleep, something might happen to you.

    And you don’t want anything to happen to you because life is beautiful. The world is beautiful, and there’s so much to admire and take in, and you can’t believe that one day it’ll be gone. It will be snatched from you– some day you can accept that, but not today. You still have your whole life to live, and you have dreams ahead of you, and you’re hopeful. You have loved, but you still have room for more love to give, and your chubby arms will extend out to the next person who will accept them. Your  hair is finally starting to become lustrous and beautiful (of course, not without the help of money and products and treatments), but you are starting to come into your own. You are independent. You like to taste smoke in your mouth, and blow it out into little perfect o’s, divine creations from your lips. You like to pick at scabs, and bite your nails. You live for walking around in just your underwear, and even though you’re insecure about your body, you feel like the world would be a better place if everyone could just get in touch with their vulnerable side and walk around in their underwear.

    You make up every excuse not to go to bed. Maybe it’s because you’re growing distant from that boy who has perpetual stubble, with the charming Australian accent, who can always manage to make you want to take your clothes off and just want to lie there while you two spoon naked and bare. Or maybe it’s because you’re secretly chuckling to yourself about the boy you’ve been not-so-secretly keeping your eye on because you have a tiny kindergarten crush on him, and are excited that he’s finally single. Either way, the thoughts lead you straight back to him. The boy with the aquamarine eyes who seem to haunt you wherever you go. At first you’re not sad, you’re barely thinking about him in the first place. The Australian and the doppelganger are great distractions. But then there are nights like this, where you go through all your old instant messages, and your messages, and your old embarrassing myspace comments, and your tumblr, and you realize that God damn it, you actually meant something to him. You did, you really did. But you know it’s too late, and you instantly regret letting him go when you did. Because, to be completely honest with yourself, he is the only person you see tearing your clothes off, and caressing your body, and touching you in places only a few have dared to venture before. But this time, it means something because it’s not just fucking. Or it’s not just having sex. And it’s not making love either. It’s an odd combination of all three, with raw passion and vulnerability. But you’re not scared, because he makes you feel beautiful in every way, shape or form. He doesn’t even have to say anything. He just has to give you a glance, and run his fingers through your hair. You aren’t even a cuddler. But you two would interlace your fingers, and stare at each others bodies with fascination, as he would hold you close and tell you that he loves you, even though he’s scared as hell to do so.

    But the memory is over, and though in a past time, it would have been a decent answer to solving all of your problems… And you hear the roosters and the chirping of birds that aren’t exactly the most melodious, instead preferring to stick to a monotonous one or two notes for the rest of their existences.


    iii.

    You were the last constellation whose stars I could ever make out and piece together into an abstract shape. The majority of the time I can only point out Orion’s Belt, and subsequently after that, Orion, and the Big Dipper. Very rarely can I squint and stumble through any other stars. But you, you shined far above the rest, but you were light years away.

    For a lack of a better way to put it, you were no Alpha Centauri. You were light years and galaxies far, far away. While there were no star wars over my heart, no death star to collapse, I know I’d use the force and fight my way to get to you– yet you were still out of my reach. Maybe I’m crazy, or maybe it’s because I’m still a young Padawan to your experienced Jedi Knight, but the plait on the right side of my head is undeserved. Yours was cut off long before mine, so you would know that the three strands interlocked, bundled and unified, are a sham of my prowess.

    In my eyes, I’m still a youngling. I’m still stumbling and falling and tripping over my words. I’m clumsy with a lightsaber, and I know not of the darkness that is yet to come. My hair is tied into a disheveled, unkempt mess– three separate pieces of myself that are haphazardly strewn together. I am volatile and fragile and extremely impressionable, and that was what you were for: you were there to hold me down and show me the ropes.

    But you were too far ahead. I can’t be expected to decipher your asterisms– I can’t even establish my own. I’m too caught up in the complexities of each individual star in my own constellation. But maybe that’s another thing. Perhaps while I was a constellation, you were a galaxy. Massive and thundering and towering and organized. And above me.

    You engulfed me.

    • “it means something because it’s not just fucking. Or it’s not just having sex. And it’s not making love either. It’s an odd combination of all three, with raw passion and vulnerability.”

      This is a beautiful line.
      You post is very heartfelt.

      • I like to revisit, revamp and recycle my old works into something new. I wrote most of these lines years ago– during a time of transition, a time where I found 19 year old me moving to Chicago for a long-distance relationship that didn’t quite work out the way I planned.

        It’s strange to see how far I’ve come in the past three years. Rapid changes, rapid progress.

        • I love seeing rapid changes and rapid progress! One day I will write so eloquently!

          • Ironically, I don’t at ALL think I write as eloquently anymore. I wrote about it in the past, but I think some of my most beautiful writing comes from the darkest points in my life.

            It’s strange that I’m relatively happy enough in my life where I can’t feel like I can write as eloquently as this anymore. But then again, that’s another topic for another blog post, right? ;) And you do write beautifully!

            • It’s interesting how darker points in our lives cause us to write in a different style than what we are normal do!

              Being happy affects how I write as well!!

              and thank you!

    • This is so so so beautifully written and so raw and honest <3

      • Thanks, Shannon! I try to be as honest as possible through my writing. It can be difficult– but sometimes, I get gems :)