You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘Wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ You think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.
I just want someone to tell me something beautiful.
There is an ache in the pit of my stomach whenever I get a missed call from an unknown number and I can feel you somewhere on the west coast leaning on a pay-phone sighing at your empty pockets. I can hear your footsteps make their way past your temporary lounge spots, up your flight of stairs, shaking against your wooden stool. I can smell cigar smoke on your shirt and the coffee brewing in your kitchen. I can feel your hair covering your eyes when you look down at another book you’ll recommend me when you get the chance. I can taste your thirst to get keep moving and never give anyone a chance to get tired of your manic laughter or the way you rant on about how little people are willing to experience. Sometimes the world feels so small when you touch my mind in new york city, but that’s what people like you do. You are the charming, run-away interest in everyone’s story. The echo at the light end of the tunnel. You are their fleeing opportunity; The entertaining presence of their could-have-been lives and the ache in their stomachs when you’re gone.
You are my lost and forgotten urge to take every path and sail every ocean and feel every fingertip. If this world is as small as it feels sometimes, I’ll find you again.