Violets turn indigo if you leave them in the sun too long. That’s what happened to our love, I think. I can’t look at you anymore without tasting tomatoes and red wine in my mouth. Balmy summer nights spent breathing in the hillside, eating things my father picked and left in a basket for us. I hated the way you smoked cigarettes after you drank, carefully rolled Bali Shag with infuriating precision. Little wrapped miracles, the product of focus that i thought you could have directed toward something more worthy. I was unsure if you smoked the cigarettes because of the identity they allowed you to assume, the high they allowed you to experience or the anger they provoked in the general society and the “love of your life.” All three reasons seem heartfelt. I thought you were deep. I think that every individual person is deep but i thought that you felt the earth’s potential tremoring in you all the time and the comfort of another person was the only way to tame cascading waves of need. Dependency, like we are stuck to the earth with filaments of hope and expectations, some of us pulled to its core and steady enough to look around.
I liked to sing in the car when we went on drives at night. I remember the first time I visited you in Laguna Beach, we left your house after some beers at 11:30 and smoked a joint on your front porch. You decided we would drive to the beach because you preferred to get there quickly with minimal physical exertion. I sing “Champagne Supernova” the whole way down, stoned and reveling in the harmony I detect in my tenor for the first time. You say nothing but stare at the road on front of you, a cliff descending below it to the dancing ocean. I am wearing your oversized sweatshirt, legs bare and hair loose. The moon lit everything up like headlights.
I don’t think i’ve ever shared a moment of passion with my “friend.” Our love for each other is one of the most elegantly stylized and well-projected emotions I’m not sure I’ve ever had. We surprise each other and make grand gestures of affection. Our back and forth is quick and cathartic, I need not explain what I mean and you know exactly which quip will make it all seem important. We’re like culture, we tie up true sentiments with pithy statement that make the skies seem brighter. Things are buoyant and easy when I’m with you, but I don’t feel the thickness of a real bond warm at the base of my being. I don’t feel like I’m strapped to the ground when I’m with you, like we see the same world when we look each other in the eye.
I know one soul is mirrors to my eyes. At moments that cannot feel true, however, since one time we sat on a bus and you asked if I could hear a woman screaming. I think you make me want to thrive more than any other human being i’ve experienced. I feel that the world is like an indigo ocean when I think about walking at dusk with you. It is dim enough to see everything and I eat in awe of the depth of this world’s hue I live the life you give me, but I fear what kind of feelings I can give you. How can you feel safe when the one person that was supposed to hold up our arch let it collapse alone with my dignity? You haven’t had hope for others before so you’re not hurt. But I can feel that I’ve chipped another piece away from your belief in humanity and I don’t want it to shave away like the colored pencils we coveted as little girls. I learned the horrors of your past walking by the Seine in the Paris, still the most phosphorescent and paradisiacal time of life I have ever experienced. My soul sang at the most balanced high note, grasping at the stars with wonderment and gratitude. British Dukes took us by their side and we waltzed through life like a scheduled opportunity to be loved. But violets turn indigo if you leave them in the sun too long. Our summer of beauty turned to winter, and that I supposed I would once call a “down phase.”