Someone warm and reliable.
Someone who knows the shape of their skin and
Who knows what it is to live in it and
Who wouldn’t trade it in for anybody else’s.
Someone who melts his stoicism without hesitation,
Who knows his faults like a topographic map
But who sees their navigation as a quiet inevitability,
Not a damnation.
(Because we’re all flawed).
Someone who’s awed, easily, but never stops asking questions,
Who doesn’t let tension snap,
Who takes naps (and snores) and wakes up grumpy.
Someone who values silence (but can’t contain his voice sometimes),
Someone who knows how to rhyme, but doesn’t care to.
Someone who knows how much he doesn’t know,
But sets that aside just so he can argue, and he argues well.
Someone who shuts me out when he’s stressed about
Whatever it is that stresses him out.
I can only guess.
Someone who reads every word I write
And tells me all the ways I got it right
And got it wrong, and knows I’m strong enough to handle it.
Someone who tries but sometimes falls short,
Which makes him resort to desperate measures
Because he thinks that I’m a treasure even if
He knows that he forgets how much I’m worth, sometimes.
Someone with stretch marks on his spine
From the time he grew so suddenly he couldn’t wear any of his clothes,
And only he knows how desperately he once tried to erase them.
Someone with an unfettered inner child
Who runs wild, but gets reined in at all the right moments.
Someone who doesn’t talk to his mother,
Or idolizes his father,
Or who still resents his brother
For getting the better bedroom, or his parents’ approval.
Someone with a temper,
Who doesn’t always remember the important days
But who makes up for it in the strangest ways,
Because he stays.
Someone who feels.
Someone who holds me,
Who puts his arms about me in a way that makes me feel
Like he could be just fine without me
But doesn’t want to know what that would be.
Someone to whom a reflection isn’t an enemy,
Just another way to see himself,
Because he just sees himself.
Someone who sees me, too,
Back to being a writer now I promise I have written words and they go in order and they look very nice next to each other, I promise.
We came to the conclusion almost unanimously that the delivery date indicated for the flowers (June 21st) would coincide with the day that the place—whatever it would prove to be, in the end—would open its doors to us. It was clear that the flowers were meant for some kind of grand celebration, a fabulous debut, and we could only hope that there was no intention to make it in any way exclusive, for that would be a cruelty beyond reckoning. We wondered when, how, and if we would be invited.
Yet the orchids, and the impending date, only satisfied us for a matter of weeks. Sooner than we would have liked, we had exhausted our theories on what they could truly portend; with no news from the old Hotel to entice us, we slowly began to speak of other, more quotidian things. Just as our lunchtime conversations had nearly lost their fervent fire altogether, another tidbit came to light, with curiously precise timing. With a style we would come to recognize, this development was utterly underwhelming in its presentation, and would have nearly slipped past our notice if a handful of us weren’t still avid readers of the Gazette.
In the corner of the classifieds, a small and unobtrusive advertisement appeared; it was no more than seven centimetres square, and with no evident expense taken on colour or ornamentation. In a plain font, the monochromatic masterpiece of mundanity announced an open casting call, reading simply thus:
'Seeking: unique talents, performers, practitioners of arts strange, dangerous, sensual, unusual and otherwise. Discretion an asset.'
And then there was a phone number. We were agog.
Its sheer plainness suggested to us that whoever had requested it had known that no matter how pedestrian its appearance was, the spread of the information it contained would be immediately epidemic, and so it was. In what seemed like only a matter of hours, it was the only thing to be discussed amongst citizens in the know; we decided quite quickly that the grand opening must feature extraordinary performances by hitherto unknown talents from our wondrous city. We envisioned limber trapeze artists and extravagantly choreographed circus spectacles, with opulent sets and sumptuous costumes and music and dancing and momentary constellations caught in slender champagne flutes.
As with so many of our suppositions, we would prove to be neither entirely correct, nor truly entirely wrong.
A Rumour of Midnight
Oh my god oh my god I finished something.
The Writer Letters
So I’ve lately been having a little trouble keeping up any kind of actual writing pace. Nonetheless, I have had an idea for a while that I would really like to put into action, hopefully with the end result that I will get back into regular writing.
So, I am looking for people who would be interested in becoming pen-pals. My intention with this is to connect with people who enjoy/would like to try exchanging hand-written letters, with the express purpose of sharing pieces of writing.
This can take any number different forms. I’m open to:
Or any combination thereof, or any suggestion you might have yourself. The crux of this is that we keep each other inspired.
To be eligible:
I’m going to be reblogging this regularly over the next couple weeks to see if anyone ends up being interested. If not, oh well!
If you are interested, please send a message to my inbox (anonymous messages will be DISREGARDED) and we can work out the details.
I have a two week break coming up and I’m going to spend so much of it writing aaahhh