amber_waves
03-12-2004, 03:02 PM
It's okay. Everything is where it should be. As long as he's here.
I'm at some hip party, trying to look interested, amongst all the people trying to drink or snort or **** the misery away. My eyes move past the French Guy who's talking to me about the evils of US foriegn policy and feast on you. My eyes do not want to see anything else. Seeing you is enough because you're everything. What else is there?
You pick up a drink and girls swarm around you like bees. Is that what you're into, girls with big breasts and long hair, who speak words that are hollow? You deserve better words, you deserve these words because they long to be received, into your ears and into your heart which is black, I know, but I love it anyway. I would bring you back to life. I would make you feel again.
If you would only let me.
You never smile. Your eyes are sad. But out of your mouth comes witty put-downs, words as knifes. The first time I saw you, you cut me and I've been bleeding ever since, bleeding out my need for you. This could be so wonderful.
The French Guy is still talking. I wish he'd stop. There's too much noise in here. You're walking now to the window and gazing out. What are you thinking? Are you thinking about how we've all become cliches, how the beer is bad and the classes are bad and these desperate fumbles in the dark are the worse by far and it is so ****ing heart-breaking to be a human in this day and age? Or are you just thinking about who your next **** will be, what you'll say to get them where you want them? I don't care. I want all of you even the parts that are ugly. Pure love doesn't feel the need to section off a person into parts like a butcher. Pure love doesn't make those kinds of demands.
Why do you never see me? I follow you to your Sculpture class, to your class on Joyce, to your class on the finer points of democracy. I sit next to you and turm my body towards you, inviting you in. But you never look at me. Why are you so ****ing stupid and so ****ing blind? What is wrong with you?
What is wrong with *me*? Why do I love someone who's probably never loved anyone in his life (except himself, of course)?
Because I know. It echoes within me, at the deepest core of my being. That this is what love is. Love hurts and it leaves marks and these marks are as much my doing as they are yours. But you don't want to be marked. That's fine. I'll stay marked enough for the both of us.
Evan moves away from the window and gets another beer. The beer sucks. But he drinks it anyway.
He looks around the room.
Nobody here he wants to know.
I'm at some hip party, trying to look interested, amongst all the people trying to drink or snort or **** the misery away. My eyes move past the French Guy who's talking to me about the evils of US foriegn policy and feast on you. My eyes do not want to see anything else. Seeing you is enough because you're everything. What else is there?
You pick up a drink and girls swarm around you like bees. Is that what you're into, girls with big breasts and long hair, who speak words that are hollow? You deserve better words, you deserve these words because they long to be received, into your ears and into your heart which is black, I know, but I love it anyway. I would bring you back to life. I would make you feel again.
If you would only let me.
You never smile. Your eyes are sad. But out of your mouth comes witty put-downs, words as knifes. The first time I saw you, you cut me and I've been bleeding ever since, bleeding out my need for you. This could be so wonderful.
The French Guy is still talking. I wish he'd stop. There's too much noise in here. You're walking now to the window and gazing out. What are you thinking? Are you thinking about how we've all become cliches, how the beer is bad and the classes are bad and these desperate fumbles in the dark are the worse by far and it is so ****ing heart-breaking to be a human in this day and age? Or are you just thinking about who your next **** will be, what you'll say to get them where you want them? I don't care. I want all of you even the parts that are ugly. Pure love doesn't feel the need to section off a person into parts like a butcher. Pure love doesn't make those kinds of demands.
Why do you never see me? I follow you to your Sculpture class, to your class on Joyce, to your class on the finer points of democracy. I sit next to you and turm my body towards you, inviting you in. But you never look at me. Why are you so ****ing stupid and so ****ing blind? What is wrong with you?
What is wrong with *me*? Why do I love someone who's probably never loved anyone in his life (except himself, of course)?
Because I know. It echoes within me, at the deepest core of my being. That this is what love is. Love hurts and it leaves marks and these marks are as much my doing as they are yours. But you don't want to be marked. That's fine. I'll stay marked enough for the both of us.
Evan moves away from the window and gets another beer. The beer sucks. But he drinks it anyway.
He looks around the room.
Nobody here he wants to know.