late nights and loud fights
it's all just a blur

3:05 p.m. | 2006-01-17
Kiss Me, I Will Kiss You Back

You are my love. Stuffed between binders, written over coffee or Ben Gibbard or any of those things I hold precious. You are the moment I crack a smile and the very first tear streaming down my cheek. You are the way my jeans fit just right and my laugh when I see that face.

The wrinkles next to my eyes, my minimal (but lovely) blues collection, my favorite standby shoes.

Infiltrated and entangled in every turn I make every step I take and every moment life takes me.

I've obsessed over you, the way everyone has, yet I have some strange designation in my head which says I want it more than you. Something in how I know what I like and don't hate much. How can I be so picky over my sheets and my knives and still have no say over my heart?

You don't exist. Sometimes you're a businessman, sometimes you're a musician; ad exec; painter; journalist; doctor; lawyer; small business owner; chef.

I see you and I watch you. I can make some determinations easily. You're wearing nice gray slacks, a mild striped shirt, a black leather jacket and Travelpro luggage.

You want to be the depart Monday arrive Friday type. You aren't. See your slacks are the kind you buy to impress-- or for business school. Your shirt is missing a tie and lightly patterned. Your jacket remains on, but it's black leather -- and has that 'a little too short and elastic at the bottom' look typical of the mid-west and your face is much too young for this.

These assumptions, with verbal cues, are correct (I came to find out later from a semi-intimate conversation you had with the girl from Germany next to you).

I watch his ring finger and watch him interact and on a not-so-base level stare out of the corner of my eye and calculate whether or not we'd make it. You know, you and I. See we're already that in my head and we've never even said hello (which is partially why I got so upset when you said something to the girl with the accent). Here I am 6 feet from you in an airport and we've shared all but one glance and I'm already jealous.

Would we have enough to talk about? Would you be loving? Would it be appropriate of me to show you how I care? If I were staring off would you not ask me what it is but rather lean over and kiss my cheek and smile?

I should write movies.

I step back, I'm 26c he's 20b. Next week he won't remember the girl who helped him note that his luggage, a bit wide, would fit on the other side after he had already relegated himself to the fact that he'd be checking it.

I won't even be a speck in his memory. He might even have forgotten by tonight.

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