Lover's monologue / There is something
Lover’s monologue
I love you so much
It’s like sugar on my teeth,
It’s like a zit on my forehead,
It’s like when I can't put the thread through the eye of the needle,
It’s like when I squint at the sink in the morning because it’s too bright and I feel like I will go blind if I open my eyes slightly more.
I will go blind if I see you on my bed with your arm around my cat,
If I see you between the aisles in the store looking at milk price tags.
It's like my clothes smell with smoke,
It’s like I don't recognize myself in the mirror anymore,
It’s like when I can't reach to the high shelf,
It’s like the feeling I get when there is salt water in my nose,
It’s like the shirt that sticks to my skin
It’s like a mosquito that I can't hunt in the middle of the night.
I love you so much
It’s like when electricity goes off and hot water doesn’t run,
It’s like when I wait my bus for twenty minutes,
It's like I will freeze it's like I will explode if I wait one minute more.
It’s like when I hit my pinky on wall corner,
It’s like when I cut my palm on paper,
It's like the spot on my back I can’t scratch.
It’s like air conditioning that won’t work,
It’s like pencil that won’t sharpen,
It’s like waking up before the alarm clock,
It’s like bicycle chain flying off.
It’s like I will lose my conscious if meet your gaze in the rearview mirror,
If I hear you sing in the shower,
If I hear you snore in my bed with your arm around my cat.
If I see you smile I will probably run.
Because I love you so much
It’s like an ambulance call,
It’s like sirens of a police chase,
It’s like the door that should have been pulled, not pushed,
It’s like I am five again and I am fighting in the sandbox,
It’s like I am afraid of dogs again,
It’s like my niece hates me,
It’s like scissors for right handed people,
It’s like trying not to be loud at 5 am in the kitchen,
It’s like kettle whistling for too long that it feels like I will go deaf if it doesn’t shut up.
I will go deaf if I hear you talk to yourself under your breath,
If I hear you tap on keyboard,
If I hear you mutter a lullaby to me.
I might just not survive.
I might just not survive,
Because it's like a shattered bone,
It’s like running up on tenth floor,
It’s like almost passing out in a uni corridor.
It's like shouting with a sore throat
It’s like smoking with a sore throat
It’s like talking with a sore throat.
I do want to survive though.
I want to pick on your skin,
I want to bite you ‘til it’s blood,
I want to cry on your shoulder,
I want to see you in my bed with your arm around my cat,
I want to love you.
I love you so much
But you don’t get it.
There is something
“It's just one day, you open your wardrobe and there are his clothes. You go to your bathroom and there is his toothbrush, just in case. And you go to your kitchen, you make coffee, and you find yourself with two mugs, but there is no one here, just you. And you just don’t notice how your favorite mug becomes his mug, and you don’t notice when you obtain something like your mug back at his place. And you just have his keys on your keychain and sometimes you float away in your own thoughts and just drive on autopilot to the
wrong
place.
It's just sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night, because you hear something scratching in the keyhole of your front door, and you go to the door and there he is, staring at you, and he says something like "Ah, shit, sorry, wrong place, dead tired" and you just think "you may stay" and you say that and the next moment you find him half asleep in your bathroom with his toothbrush in not-so-sure-whose clothes.
And sometimes you get drunk and you wake up, still in the middle of the night, on a couch together in front of the fucking TV and that’s it. All of it. You open his wardrobe and there are your clothes, and you open his fridge and there are oranges but he is allergic.
It’s just sometimes you find long-cold mug of coffee on your table exactly how you like it, and you find yourself napping on his shoulder while waiting for the flight, and you find yourself saying two addresses to the taxi driver, and the driver looks at you, and you realise that you
are
alone.
You are alone, but there are unfamiliar bottles on the rim of your sink, there is someone’s hair in the drain, and you don’t shut the curtains as you used to, and you just turn around because you were going home,
not your home,
but his.
To his ashtray on his balcony, to his curtains, that he doesn’t shut, to your clothes in his wardrobe and to your keys on his keychain.
And you just wonder what is it, when you wake up from scratching in the keyhole of the front door and you go there, and there is wrong carpet under your feet and wrong walls on your way and you stare and say something like "shit, I’m sorry, long shift" and in the end you almost pass out over his sink with your toothbrush still in hands and you just wonder
what is it.
What else have you missed, what else TV news does not tell. And you wake up under a blanket that you didn’t have when you fell asleep and you just don’t know where you are anymore.
It’s just sometimes he sits in your kitchen reading, and sometimes you wash the dishes and you look at all the cutlery and it is not yours, but among it there is your mug.
It’s just one day you open your wardrobe and there are his clothes.
It’s just one day you wake up earlier because of the light that drips through the curtains that you don’t shut like you used to, and there is someone by your side.
It’s just one day.
It’s just one day you find a lighter in your pocket, and months later you find cigarette box in your pocket, and your fingers lay comfortably around it but you've quit smoking years ago.
But maybe not, really.
Is passive smoking still a thing? Is thinking about smoking counts? Is thinking about other person that smokes counts? It’s just you wonder sometimes.
It’s just you go through the park, and you find yourself laughing in the pile leaves, or defeated on the ground with the snow behind your collar, and you know there is snow behind his collar too, because you made sure it's there, you
made
sure.
Or you just watch ducks peacefully. Or maybe pigeons.
It’s that one day you find photos in your camera roll that you never took. And you smile on these photos, or you sleep, or you just do you. There is nothing special: just you and the pink of his fingers that accidentally got in the way, and then it’s him, smiling, and you wonder: does he have photos in his camera roll that he never took?
Was it you?
You just think, when did this happen, as you find more pictures of him with a smile across his face. It’s just one day things don’t add up anymore as you want them to. And you think, with your head on his lap and his fingers in your hair. And next day you think with his head in your lap and your thumb shyly embracing his cheek.
And day after this day and day after day after this day.
It’s just you find something fragile within you. It’s just there is something you can’t quite place. It just there are his clothes in your wardrobe.
And one day that is not day yet but morning, early, early morning, you go over things that aren’t yours but his, and you go over them on his balcony, peering out of his window, in his loose t-shirt, and his cigarette behind your ear, and with mug of coffee just as you like it, long-forgotten on his table. The sun climbs up the sky and it is just so,
so
much.
You don’t look for that fragile within you in case it shatters when you find it. You find yourself with a feeling creeping up your neck, keeping you awake and restless. It burns.
It
burns.
Sometimes it goes down your throat or hammers in your temples. But its there. Always there.
It’s just the way you find his glasses on your nightstand and his socks under your bed and his goddamn notes all over the place. It’s just once he stares at you, long enough for you to notice, he stares and he raises his hand to trace moles on your face and you,
you
freeze.
You don’t breath, you just don’t.
It’s just one day you go home, you open the front door, and you are met by the muffled voice from the bedroom,
your bedroom,
as you thought.
And you find his habits lingering in your movements, and his words intertwined with yours, and just sometimes you wonder if he can actually read your mind.
Just sometimes. It’s just sometimes.
Just sometimes, you repeat, as you blow the smoke out of his window. And there is something still untold. Something that TV news doesn’t tell, something that his calendar pinned to your fridge doesn’t tell, and something that his boots by your doorstep do not tell. Something that you won't find in his mirror, and you won't find it in the park just around the corner of his street, and you won't know it even if you ask his neighbors politely. Something that your grocery list and your favorite book, borrowed by him weeks ago, do not say, something what your friends and relatives just shrug at, something that his t-shirt on your shoulders does not say.
Something that you can’t quite place.
There is something that you can’t quite place.
There is something about him that you can’t quite place.
There are his clothes in your wardrobe.”
