[Scribbles] A history of preludes
A history of preludes, to be continued.
1.
He laughed with me.
He read with me.
We borrowed books from each other.
we borrowed books for each other.
He played cello
and I violin.
We could have made
a brilliant duet.
He did math while I spelt
him under the table.
We were young.
2.
I was conflicted.
I hated and I loved.
We could not be friends.
It is a memory,
a precursor to a split
I had been pushing against.
3.
He was lovely in every way.
I could not stop staring.
He played with his hair
for half an hour,
he proudly declared.
I took it in stride
because it was common,
but I should have known
that meant we were not.
We swam, though never together.
I only saw him once,
but it was through a friend.
My heart would beat,
so firm and strong.
It would return shortly.
4.
I continued to struggle
with those geometric figures,
while he was a friend.
There was some pity,
but I am still unsure
if there was infatuation.
We were both made fun of.
I am not sure why,
but I know we were mismatched
and it felt shameful.
It would not have mattered
if he were my equal.
Or if I were not already
being consumed by love.
5.
A time of fullness
and business I did not know
was possible
would follow.
My heart was taken up
by ideas and fancy,
love of romance,
that heroism and travel
I had cultivated
all along.
I was fully content,
satisfied,
filled to the brim
with so much love
I had none to spare for fancies
which would not last
and had no match
to my deepening thoughts,
engaged by every breath,
glance, dialogue,
and touch.
It was such a love,
I knew it would not end,
would not leave;
only death could separate
the chemical bliss
the mind creates
in joy.
Experience
happens in dreams and thought
and travel and talk
and the body.
6.
A brief encounter
would shock me years later.
Short-lived,
but that is the best kind of shock.
I was not to understand
even a year later,
frequenting contemplation
of its sudden occurrence.
Was it his presence,
his voice, his laugh,
his nature, his face?
None were to my preference
and none would be,
I soon learned.
I grew to dislike many facets
as I learned.
It was a dangerous reaction
to an unknown source,
but it taught me
a body can always surprise the mind.
7.
Perhaps this is a history of preludes,
to be shocked into continuation,
or perhaps this is but a blip
in the history of love
I can have recommended,
stumbled upon,
and searched for,
and utter fulfillment
in experiences
done to my person
through senses and direction,
without the conventional
relationship,
the absence of which
is frowned upon,
yet enriches the self.
A bit inspired by What happens if you fall in love with a writer? and Mary Oliver's "The Uses of Sorrow". It is completely non-fictional. While quite long, surprisingly, it took about the same amount of time as it does to write up 500w in proper prose-y paragraphs. Thanks for the read if you made it all of the way through.
ETA: John Green writes beautifully.
Can you imagine if there
was no longer a guarantee
of the dizziness and wonder
in the power words transmit?
I cannot express so fully
that I am brought to pause,
swallow that moment's air,
blink slowly, and exhale,
but I would rather die
than know it were impossible.
1.
He laughed with me.
He read with me.
We borrowed books from each other.
we borrowed books for each other.
He played cello
and I violin.
We could have made
a brilliant duet.
He did math while I spelt
him under the table.
We were young.
2.
I was conflicted.
I hated and I loved.
We could not be friends.
It is a memory,
a precursor to a split
I had been pushing against.
3.
He was lovely in every way.
I could not stop staring.
He played with his hair
for half an hour,
he proudly declared.
I took it in stride
because it was common,
but I should have known
that meant we were not.
We swam, though never together.
I only saw him once,
but it was through a friend.
My heart would beat,
so firm and strong.
It would return shortly.
4.
I continued to struggle
with those geometric figures,
while he was a friend.
There was some pity,
but I am still unsure
if there was infatuation.
We were both made fun of.
I am not sure why,
but I know we were mismatched
and it felt shameful.
It would not have mattered
if he were my equal.
Or if I were not already
being consumed by love.
5.
A time of fullness
and business I did not know
was possible
would follow.
My heart was taken up
by ideas and fancy,
love of romance,
that heroism and travel
I had cultivated
all along.
I was fully content,
satisfied,
filled to the brim
with so much love
I had none to spare for fancies
which would not last
and had no match
to my deepening thoughts,
engaged by every breath,
glance, dialogue,
and touch.
It was such a love,
I knew it would not end,
would not leave;
only death could separate
the chemical bliss
the mind creates
in joy.
Experience
happens in dreams and thought
and travel and talk
and the body.
6.
A brief encounter
would shock me years later.
Short-lived,
but that is the best kind of shock.
I was not to understand
even a year later,
frequenting contemplation
of its sudden occurrence.
Was it his presence,
his voice, his laugh,
his nature, his face?
None were to my preference
and none would be,
I soon learned.
I grew to dislike many facets
as I learned.
It was a dangerous reaction
to an unknown source,
but it taught me
a body can always surprise the mind.
7.
Perhaps this is a history of preludes,
to be shocked into continuation,
or perhaps this is but a blip
in the history of love
I can have recommended,
stumbled upon,
and searched for,
and utter fulfillment
in experiences
done to my person
through senses and direction,
without the conventional
relationship,
the absence of which
is frowned upon,
yet enriches the self.
A bit inspired by What happens if you fall in love with a writer? and Mary Oliver's "The Uses of Sorrow". It is completely non-fictional. While quite long, surprisingly, it took about the same amount of time as it does to write up 500w in proper prose-y paragraphs. Thanks for the read if you made it all of the way through.
ETA: John Green writes beautifully.
Can you imagine if there
was no longer a guarantee
of the dizziness and wonder
in the power words transmit?
I cannot express so fully
that I am brought to pause,
swallow that moment's air,
blink slowly, and exhale,
but I would rather die
than know it were impossible.