I lose myself to the girl who lives in my writing. She’s undeniably there, in the spotlight and in the darklight, so finely wrought, her addictive body a molding of suntans and sunlaughs. She drapes herself all over my writing, curtains me from daylight. I embolden her with capitalized words and italicized beauty. Translucent. Mischievous. Illogically enervating. Brooding. Misting. Exponentially drifting into the non-visible.
Sometimes, when the lioness night tames its roar, and the silence comes to reckon with my indisposed infatuation with the girl who got away, I can write for hours and hours: madman, philosophical inquirer of the forgotten, the lost. Memories of the woman who has been reduced to photographs and lingering pillow fragrances catapults me into cryptic lows…who’s she with? A pock mock on her breast from some other man’s lips? This self-imposed questionnaire rips me reckless, a juggler trying to stabilize life by tossing up petty reassurances, like I’ll be okay, or I’ll find another one or she’s only some girl. It’s a viscous cycle: the writing girl comes to mind, I break, I rummage in laughable petrification, then I forget her altogether, and realize the sun also rises. How symptomatically mundane.
In the ever-grinding evening, girls come and go. Skirts turn into morning bed sheets and bad-breath. European one-nighters and hostel kiss-encounters fire me up for a time. The flame dies eventually. It all becomes just another night.
Pretty faces are the interior decorations of the world. Long hair soliciting the afternoon breeze. The dresses girls wear stitched in flirtation and pressed in polytechnic color that teases the caveman in me. Endless intrigue in deciding if they want me or not. Maybe they stare at me once, or twice, the second glimpse giving me the signal: approach with a rehearsed pic-up line, or – if I’m lucky – authentic, spontaneous conversational start-ups.
And there’s never the one. How can there be? Put a hundred men and a hundred women in a room and close them in for months then open the door and see ninety percent of them in love. People learn to love each other. You can love anyone, if you spend enough time with them. I think there are thousands out there. Millions: girls who make shoulder imprints lying with me in my morning bed; women who shake with me under the watchful, silver-lined eye of the moon or under plutonic, fluorescent lovelamps in seedy bars; flings who share afternoon kisses and midnight romps. They could exist anywhere. Any country. So why plaster my internal monologues with cerebral posters of the lost girl’s smile and her impossibly fit body?
Time wastes the words we write. Find perfection at nighttime, and rise to crisscrossed, etched out words in the morning. Redrafting. Perpetual edits. Never comfortable with the period at the end of the sentence: the great calamity of writing. Pandemonium in quintessential silence. A carnival of sorrowful memories. Bursting, atmospheric thoughts of the girl that float for a time in spacial non-gravity, inevitably plummeting to earth, cratering the world I have crafted out of love in deep, regretful gorges. Newton’s law of physics don’t apply to her. What is the equal, opposite reaction to her leaving?
It’s not about being mine. It was never about ownership. It was always about co-existence, mutual memory-making, irrevocable kisses and never letting go, a hug wrapped indefinitely around. Relationships are fickle proceedings. So fragile. Always a glass crack away from emptying into the ether; always a puddy patch away from lasting forever. People say love is unpredictable. I say loves is easy to predict: it always lets me down.