Jealousy
Love means you have the same conversations over and over.
Love means you listen differently every time.
Today I tried watching everyone on the 6 train like they had a broken heart.
There is something so warlike and old about the people on the 6 train.
You can grow so old just waiting for wars to end.
My friend who is going through a breakup calls me sometimes
to come watch him cry so he can get out of bed.
My friend asks me to help figure out where the pain is coming from.
I point to a place and he says that’s right it was just hard to tell.
His heart breaks so loudly it ruptures mine.
Some love stories don’t end like anyone is right or wrong.
People can just walk away from each other with their now broken feet.
My friend will stay put until the breakup is real and bone-shattering.
I can’t say stop because I wouldn’t do different or haven’t tried.
Love is excessive to the point of survival.
I keep telling my friends I love them in an attempt to give the word love meaning.
Every love story is eventually a ghost story.
I’m reading a gay book that feels like the words from my own mouth.
Loving other writers means I’m left both jealous and hungry.
Half my anxiety comes from doing things I love.
If you stopped eating love stories back to back you might remember you
aren’t hungry.
I’m glad my old lover flew away and didn’t break my feet.
I keep making haunted houses out of people.
Sometimes there isn’t even time to make new language from one person to the next
so we say the same words behind their backs to their faces.
‘I love you’ sounds like ‘I stole this feeling somewhere’.
Something ‘s in the air this summer stringing bombs and airplanes and hearts and money to a single line of gunpowder.
Every story I’m writing feels terrifying under the surface.
Like we are just watching each other survive more, and this time, it’s not even beautiful.