No Matter
Realization of the moment: I don't matter. Nothing I do matters.
I've been spending carefully counted hours pining and whining. But I know he's fine. He's not worried. He's got those people around him who make him laugh and feel better. I have those people who remind me how weak I am. Somehow I doubt he's sitting at home thinking about something he wishes he could tell me, if I were there. He's getting out, he's diverting his attention. Something tells me he's not counting. Who again? Her? Oh yeah, the crazy one. Haven't seen her.
Last year at this time I was 1000 miles away, but I felt much closer than I do now. We talked for hours that slipped by uncounted. He wanted to know why I liked him. I was caught off guard because I hadn't really made a list. I just sort of liked him. So I came up with something lame, of course. The next day I wrote to him and listed 15 things I liked about him. It figures. Now that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference, I have a long list. And it's real things.
I love the way he walks like he's not in a hurry, even when he is. The way he makes his coffee every morning as if it were the most important beverage in the entire world. I love the Chuck Taylor's. And the white tennis shoes too. I love the way his hair curls up when it dries. I love the soft smoothness of his back. The zebra stripes. The way he tilts his head back when he sits in the sun. How he uses words like 'apogee' in regular conversations without sounding pretentious. How he doesn't envy his neighbors. How he doesn't aspire to make money. How he looks at the stars as often as I do. I love that he doesn't multitask. How he paces while he's on the phone. I love the sound of his voice, even when he snaps at me. I love that he actually listens to music. Even mine. That he loves to sit by the fire. And make hot chocolate. That he loves to try new things and overindulge. I love the way he touches me. The way he looks at me. Kisses me. How he makes his bed every morning. I love that he's a faithful writer. That he's part of his surroundings. That he loves kids and animals. I love that he listens. That he adores baseball. I love his hands. That he talks about his heart, and not in a medical way. I love his laugh. And his smile. I love how he says 'unbelievable' all the time. I love how he's a rebel. How he says the word 'fucking', with the emphasis on the 'f'. That he doesn't have to try to be romantic, he just is naturally. That he knows how to talk. I love that he doesn't act like an adult. That he thinks weird people are cool. I love how fastidious he is about television. I love how he automatically goes to the kitchen to talk, instead of the couch. (But I love Big Purple Couch too) I love his stories. The Molokai birthmark. The big red coat. I love his hugs, how they are so much more than just a greeting. I love how he wades into the ocean up to his knees, then dives into the next wave. I love that he hates shopping, crowds, and cell phones. I love that he hates parties. I love that he can wear my clothes, and would, if I wasn't already. I love how he talks about everyday life in such a literary way. How strange his handwriting is. How he types on a typewriter instead of a computer. How he isn't afraid to ask for help with computer stuff, even though he knows I probably don't know either. I love how he takes care of the curtains in the front. I love his sense of humor. I love that he is absolutely one of the smartest people I've ever known, and he's not a jerk about it by trying to show off to everyone. That he struggles between being honest with people and being nice at the same time. I love how he lets me choose the wine. How he clips articles out of the newspaper because he thinks I might be interested in reading them. That he loves jazz in a true, non-elitist way. That he loves the ballet. That he has no need to be macho. That his alarm clock is smaller than a ruler. That he lights candles. I love that he doesn't need a bunch of stuff to stay happy. That he likes to plant flowers, even if they are going to die within a week.
This list is so much better than the 15 reasons. But now it doesn't matter. Nothing does.
I've been spending carefully counted hours pining and whining. But I know he's fine. He's not worried. He's got those people around him who make him laugh and feel better. I have those people who remind me how weak I am. Somehow I doubt he's sitting at home thinking about something he wishes he could tell me, if I were there. He's getting out, he's diverting his attention. Something tells me he's not counting. Who again? Her? Oh yeah, the crazy one. Haven't seen her.
Last year at this time I was 1000 miles away, but I felt much closer than I do now. We talked for hours that slipped by uncounted. He wanted to know why I liked him. I was caught off guard because I hadn't really made a list. I just sort of liked him. So I came up with something lame, of course. The next day I wrote to him and listed 15 things I liked about him. It figures. Now that it doesn't make a damn bit of difference, I have a long list. And it's real things.
I love the way he walks like he's not in a hurry, even when he is. The way he makes his coffee every morning as if it were the most important beverage in the entire world. I love the Chuck Taylor's. And the white tennis shoes too. I love the way his hair curls up when it dries. I love the soft smoothness of his back. The zebra stripes. The way he tilts his head back when he sits in the sun. How he uses words like 'apogee' in regular conversations without sounding pretentious. How he doesn't envy his neighbors. How he doesn't aspire to make money. How he looks at the stars as often as I do. I love that he doesn't multitask. How he paces while he's on the phone. I love the sound of his voice, even when he snaps at me. I love that he actually listens to music. Even mine. That he loves to sit by the fire. And make hot chocolate. That he loves to try new things and overindulge. I love the way he touches me. The way he looks at me. Kisses me. How he makes his bed every morning. I love that he's a faithful writer. That he's part of his surroundings. That he loves kids and animals. I love that he listens. That he adores baseball. I love his hands. That he talks about his heart, and not in a medical way. I love his laugh. And his smile. I love how he says 'unbelievable' all the time. I love how he's a rebel. How he says the word 'fucking', with the emphasis on the 'f'. That he doesn't have to try to be romantic, he just is naturally. That he knows how to talk. I love that he doesn't act like an adult. That he thinks weird people are cool. I love how fastidious he is about television. I love how he automatically goes to the kitchen to talk, instead of the couch. (But I love Big Purple Couch too) I love his stories. The Molokai birthmark. The big red coat. I love his hugs, how they are so much more than just a greeting. I love how he wades into the ocean up to his knees, then dives into the next wave. I love that he hates shopping, crowds, and cell phones. I love that he hates parties. I love that he can wear my clothes, and would, if I wasn't already. I love how he talks about everyday life in such a literary way. How strange his handwriting is. How he types on a typewriter instead of a computer. How he isn't afraid to ask for help with computer stuff, even though he knows I probably don't know either. I love how he takes care of the curtains in the front. I love his sense of humor. I love that he is absolutely one of the smartest people I've ever known, and he's not a jerk about it by trying to show off to everyone. That he struggles between being honest with people and being nice at the same time. I love how he lets me choose the wine. How he clips articles out of the newspaper because he thinks I might be interested in reading them. That he loves jazz in a true, non-elitist way. That he loves the ballet. That he has no need to be macho. That his alarm clock is smaller than a ruler. That he lights candles. I love that he doesn't need a bunch of stuff to stay happy. That he likes to plant flowers, even if they are going to die within a week.
This list is so much better than the 15 reasons. But now it doesn't matter. Nothing does.
posted by Ocean | 1:30 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home