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ghost-mafia · 1 year

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His long dark eyelashes rest so perfectly against the smooth plain of his cheek, beautiful to me but not to himself. His fluttery, often-frustrsted hands are at rest, beautiful too, thin and long fingered, capable and romantic, like a piano player or a poet, and

the poetry he writes is perfect to me, too, in the way that car crashes and motor cycle accidents are perfect, and somehow just as thrilling to read as it was to car-crash my car again and again before i knew him.

Our hearts are dark together, pressed close through our chests, like twins in a womb, mirroring trauma and love and vicious rage and retaliation and pain and more love and pure sex.

With no rules, we would destroy one another. Or we would survive one another and get better, quit being junkie skum fux and live a normal life together, and heal somehow from all the awful, soul-ruining shit that made us how we are, the shit that makes us perfect for each other, with a sense of massive, life-shattering gravity pulling us closer together until a kind of singilarity occurs.

The twitch and ache for closeness, the agony of yearning so completely for the other person. Comfort is telling myself that he was there with me this whole time: the frailty of getting sick and almost dying, the frailty of being vulnerable in front of someone despite knowing they could irrepairably damage you by you just trusting them with ur nakedness.

How i have cried. How i longed for him. Its the way i knew him in my mind beofre i ever met him, how i wished for him all those years i was alone alone alone, especially alone with other people, the way emptiness hurt so bad that i had to let it out, make it into an image on my skin. I love every single slice and scratch that ever marched across his skin, each one is a demarcation of a singular moment that hurt, just like my tattoos, but rendered in scar tissue...

We are inverted negatives of each other, incomplete without the other, and how it made me cry to realize that id never been a complete person until he fit up against me like an answer to my whole life's questioning, like a puzzle piece that has only one interlocking piece that reveals a new and beautiful picture: all the possibility of the world suddenly seen in startling clarity, like telling the truth for the first fucking time. Oh, i thought, you stupid, stupid girl- SO this is what love feels like, real visceral, in the flesh amd bone. I want to give him life but my body rebels, rejects my want, wont fulfill my wishes. In this i would have the opportunity to grow and become the version of myself that i was always waiting to become- a refugee from an alternate dimension, a pirate with no gold and no wind fuckin sail with, wasted years rotting and falling away, shedding all that pain of not being together. It agonizes me that he was there all along, a familar stranger i would come to love so dearly that it sucks the breath out of my chest.

#my prose #poème en prose #prose poetry #oly wa #pnw writer #writers of the pnw #poetry about chester #chester and beatriss harp #true love #william burroughs #we were born sick and i love it #born sick #i love it

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