le spectacle de la merde (part 1)

I could start fires with what I feel for you.

Since the first time you walked up and kissed me on St Patrick’s day, I’ve been feeling this sense of longing. That kiss was innocent.

You were drunk and came over to tell me Happy St Patrick’s day and to tell me I looked beautiful. I didn’t look beautiful, I had just gotten off work and was sitting by myself in a crowded bar, and hadn’t really talked to you much in the past few years we’ve known each other. And you leaned over and laid this big sloppy drunk kiss on my forehead and I got a whiff of what you smell like.

You smell like heaven. You smell like home. You smelled like Jameson and cigarettes, but it was the hair wax you use that got me. It just smells like you. Heaven. I’d also forgotten how tall you are, since you’re usually sitting on a bar stool when I see you. But the longing began then because I wondered what it would be like to hug you.

I didn’t have to wait long, you started standing up and hugging me every time I walked into the bar after that. I always secretly wanted to see you because I liked watching you move through the crowd. I liked your beautiful eyes and just how insanely over the top you are, and your laugh.

Then it happened.

I fell off a barstool. Or rather it broke and even though someone was with me, for some reason from completely across the bar you got to me first to help me up. And the look on your face was the same look I imagine I’ve been giving you for a couple of weeks. It was a look of longing. After you sat down next to me and started talking to me. Your arm kept brushing up against mine at the bar while you finished your beer.

I don’t know how many days later it was, I was in the bar after work and you were on your day off. You kept yelling down the bar any time I played something you liked on the jukebox. Finally you got up and went to smoke or something and when you came back you leaned next to me to talk about Elvis Costello and your arm was rubbing against mine and when you walked off again you ran your hand down my back. Longing.

Later that afternoon you walked back over and inserted yourself into a conversation I was having with some bar regular and I had to slam my journal shut because I’d writing about how pretty your eyes are and you put your arm around me like it was the most natural thing in the world. And like you had done it a million times, you bent down and kissed me on the lips before wandering away. As I got ready to leave you came over and asked where I was going and I told you to catch the bus and the smile on your face could have lit up the entire Western Seaboard.

You were holding my hand before we got to the corner.

I never made it to the bus stop.

The longing is still there. We live in total chaos and we can’t seem to get a beat on what we’re doing here, but the longing is still there. Every second I’m with you is the most intense second of the day. It’s not something I’m used to.

There are a lot of things about you I’m not used to.