And what I said the week after that

Photo: Getty Images / Yifei Fang

Three weeks ago I wrote

about how “perfect” is so subjective and vague and impossible and stupid and how you are precisely it in so many ways.

and the week after that I said I don’t think I can do this anymore.

My Uncle Mike created a new tagline for Chili’s that goes

“You’re gonna hate the way you feel. I guarantee it.”

and I think it applies here too.

Maybe you’re thinking

Where do you go to, my lovely

When you’re alone in your bed?

Tell me the thoughts that surround you

I want to look inside your head


To what you’re about to read

Photo: .tafo. via Flickr

I asked “When you told your friends you don’t love me anymore, how did they feel?” and you said “Not surprised.”

///

Three days later you posted a photo and your friends were like “You’ve never looked happier!!!” and they were right.

///

My friends don’t ask me where you are anymore because they know I don’t know.

///

I guess we were ships crashing in the night.

///

So now my memory of you is like money in a glass case in the sea: beautiful, untouchable, distorted, seductive, sinking. …


This Is Us

This is about the past and, I promise, the future

A photo of a couple standing by the water overlooking a bridge and a city.
A photo of a couple standing by the water overlooking a bridge and a city.
Photo: Troy Tolley/Flickr

This is about the times when we all reverberate in a theater, consumed by anticipation in the pitch black as the orchestra tunes itself toward endless possibility.

This is about Airplane and a child’s body tethered to yours yet “soaring” above the earth in the tiny, infinite world you’ve imagined and created together. You are connected by feet and chest and name and blood, and she is propelled to the sky by your magic and grounded to safety by your love.

This is about my fingers as a dune buggy race on the endless sands of your back or as…


Photo by Kateryna Moskalova on Unsplash

Rewriting the Wikipedia entry of my life

Let me be your tender warrior. Your Venus as a boy. Your Build-A-Beard Workshop. Let me be your Dance Therapy Barbie; you can brush my hair, undress me anywhere. Imagination, life is your creation.

Our home is a green screen inside a pillow fort on a VR cul-de-sac and the Time Machine™ is in the mail. Best thing on our registry for sure.

There’s no line at the stadium where we create baseball cards of ourselves wearing authentic adult-sized uniforms with our real height, weight, and elementary school. Your stats are a blank check; maybe you’re a lights-out (knuckleball???) closer…


(I’ve never met)

Photo: Nicola Preti/Flickr

Dear Versions,

I am a child lost in a Kmart pulling on random pant legs like, “Are you my family? Are you my family?”

Dear Family,

Suddenly you are The Moon and I am the tides and without you I’d just stop.

Dear Tides,

I pray someone lets my Jean Grey rise like The Phoenix from the ashes of my future. X-Men; amen.

Dear Phoenix,

Send my measured life into a frenzy like a wasp at a bachelorette brunch until I am fearless then immune then obsessed and rent us a one-bedroom in the hive.

Dear Fearless,

Your light singes…


And I can’t save us

Photo: Sundaram Ramaswamy/Flickr

My memory

of you is like money in a glass case in the sea: beautiful, untouchable, distorted, seductive, sinking. Or maybe it’s money dropped out of a helicopter into the sea and I’m on some twisted game show frantically grasping for bills and trying not to drown.

I can’t

save you now; you’re at my memory’s mercy. Five weeks or 22 months chopped and screwed, laced with kaleidoscope dust, remixing the proportions of the past; a delusional narrator describing the sensation of my recollection’s fingers on the edges of reality.

Sometimes time

is a healer and sometimes it’s a weapon. …


And I’m going to tell you everything anyway

Photo: Elva Etienne/Getty Images

It’s like tonight is a blank page and a blinking cursor. They say Shakespeare was a woman. They say God is, too.

It’s like you’re nesting dolls of desire, stacked with endless possibility down to the earth’s core like turtles.

It’s like I’m Lieutenant Olivia Benson and you’re some fucked-up murder. Give me 21 minutes to crack the case before you Dick Wolf and everything goes black.

It’s like we’re Brad Pitt and George Clooney, and we drop some glowsticks down an elevator shaft to illuminate its darkest depths.

It’s like you’re reading my pores like Braille.

It’s like peristalsis…


So move in whenever

Photo: Ivan Grgic/Getty Images

Reckless Wonder

I will wait for the day you send love out into the world with reckless wonder like a message in a bottle that washes ashore to me the day I find my childhood baseball mitt and peel back a flap of leather that reveals your return address.

Until then I’m building myself like a house for you, so feel free to move in whenever.

Fire Flower

You are fire flower paper blood and I am honey coffee water sun.

Watch witches stir us in a cauldron and fulfill our prophecy as inevitable as time.

Night Light

Sometimes you’re a pinball machine in the dark…

Ben Kassoy

Editor-in-chief @dosomething and freelancer about town. More at benkassoy.com.

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