v u l v a l i c i o u s
in love with artists
i fall in love with artists, but it's writers who love me back. there is something in the way we tell each other stories, feeding one another in handfuls of words until we are stuffed with them.
but i'm a visual learner, and i can't hold them that way. they're in my head and then they're gone and i'm reaching out trying to remember the details. which person was the one who stole your journals and which was the one who told you that you'd never love again?
i remember light. i remember the way the painting looked. i remember blue and reflection of light on wet pavement and how bright the subway lights felt when i went home after talking for hours. visual memory.
visceral memory. our hands getting closer and closer as we sat on the orange couch. the cold grass and sky full of stars. so many mouths.
it's important to note that i am not really in love right now. at least not any more than i must be in order to survive. (i need more love to survive than most people need; this is an undeniable fact).
but i'm craving the smell of the back of a neck and wanting so much to hold hands. to be warm and soft with someone warm and soft. to breathe love in the way that doesn't expect any more than its own moment.