There is beauty everywhere my love,
Even in the scariest.
If only you will look.
And there is ugliness everywhere,
But listen love,
I am a beautiful thing.
I’ll hand you peeled clementines and sliced apples.
I’ll come home to you at two on a Thursday night. I’ll stand at your window and I’ll throw pebbles till you let me in, and I’ll tuck my cold feet underneath your thighs and laugh at all your jokes, till the very seams of my being patch themselves in the glow of your devotion.
This is how it always is.
Everyone I meet is an idol,
And I haven’t met anyone I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life with,
And I wish my heart wasn’t so full it couldn’t beat,
And that the things that weighed on it left warmer spots.
And I wish I didn’t have to yearn so much that the things that I want, when I have, I still want them,
And the things I love, it isn't with the intensity of a dying star.
I am a beautiful thing darling.
In every hand, I am a trophy.
In every house, I am the second.
On every shelf, I am dusty.
In every life, I am an afterthought.
So I have made a show of leaving my name on walls, and under desks, in the back of hearts, and in thoughts you can’t quite place, in all the places no one ever looks.
My heart’s a bunch of open wounds, always scabbing, always itchy, ever ready to bleed.
And my anger, it flows, and it simmers in my chest, and it coagulates into something unpleasant.
So when you give me an inch, I light your feet on fire,
Cut me some slack, I’ll burn the cloth.
And it all goes wrong so fast, like a misplaced joke.
Like the seconds right before the moon eclipses the sun.
And in the coldness, you wither.
In your graveyard, my cold spots become ghost spots.
This is how it ends.
You promise me tomorrow, and the day after, and the next, and all the tomorrows you’ll live for.
So I’ll stay today and tomorrow, again and again, until the very thought of losing you seizes me.
Till I can’t breathe, till my heart feels like paper catching fire from the centre.
This is an encore.
On a Thursday at 1 AM, there’s a room with a chaise by the window.
With large windows and heart-shaped helium balloons stuck to the ceiling.
Love is in the air, and in the grains of sand my shoe brings to your doorpost.
Love is in the hand that unties my shoelaces, and it’s in the chain that dangles from your neck.
It’s in the white tee I change into. It’s in the voice that reads to me, and it’s in the sound my laughter carries.
This is how it always is.
The things that I’m not able to fix, in time they fix themselves.
David Hettinger. A Mystery.
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