And now for Rose’s WRITE HERE, WRITE NOW entry ...

Getting There Slowly


I think I’m in love with you.
I haven’t told you yet. I don’t know if I ever will. Long distance is hard. That’s a cliché, isn’t it? We would be a cliché. I don’t want that. I don’t want to let us be that ordinary. Saying it would make it real. I can’t let that happen.
You’re a continent away, now. You love to travel. Pictures up every day.
Florence. Some soft hourglass rubbing herself against you in honey gloop of sun. You let her lick ice cream from your tongue outside that tiny gelaterie. If I could I would have ripped the unworthy muscle from her mouth.
Sydney. Sunburnt tender. You liked the throb. You’ve never told anyone that. Google search: “Is it okay to enjoy being hurt”. Bless. Little lamb. Sting sweet. I want to bite that red stretch of skin under your jaw until you scream. You’d like it.
Detroit. Your Dad died. You found out on a Skype call. You didn’t leave your apartment for nine days. Didn’t cry. Didn’t wash. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t move from the bed. You watched all eleven seasons of Fraiser on Netflix. Quite impressive. Pretty sure you pissed the bed. You didn’t seem to care. I wanted to feel bad for you, but I think we’re beyond pity. Just watched in fascination as the layers of grease built up on your face.
Bordeaux. You listen to showtunes when you’re sad, did you know? It’s bizarre. In garden, lungs blue and bruised from screaming out the words. Sky black but you bathed in electric glow. Night hot and heavy judging by sweat drip on your cheeks. Guzzling down wine from a mug in-between gasps and gushes and oh here’s the chorus. Classy boy. Lips stained purple. Dribbling out red rivulets. If I licked them, they would taste like vinegar and spit and you. I don’t know what you taste like. I will, one day.
No one will ever know you like I do.
I found you years ago and realised I needed to know every inch of you. Need in the most desperate, pathetic sense. Necessity, like breathing. Gasping for your existence. Needed to know the sweat at the crack of your knee and the smell of your neck after rain. The sound of your snores and why you want to scream when you look up at the sky at night. Scrambling all over myself to get a taste of your brain. Getting there, slowly. Finding you piece by piece.
I’m good with computers. Most of it you put up yourself. Facebook posts, Snapchat stories, late night tweets. The more private stuff; passwords aren’t hard to crack. Laptop and iPhone cameras not that hard to hack. I’ve been with you, watching. Every country. Every step of the way. Just behind the screen.
I think I’m in love with you. One day, when you’re close enough, I might let you know. I’ll never let us be a cliché. I promise.


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