Dear Amber,

Thursday, I chewed on raindrops and thought of you...

Tuesday, some months ago, shortly after a rerun of the season finale of an FX horror-drama television program, seagull feathers filled the mouths of jet engines causing a plane crash outside a small bay in Thailand, and your eyes quietly shattered the morning affair or spiraled in postponed reverie that I recall well: a huddled form of those softest tissues, legs pulled up toward your breasts, the corner of your eyelashes unresponsive and sluggishly reallocating internal priorities regarding IKEA. We never claimed to be angels or love at right angles, and sometimes it is killing me. Sometimes, drenched belongings scattered across the bedroom floor to remind me of how far I fell last fall.

ADULTHOOD:

A red and blue tie untied open around my neck, and you, an ignis fatuus, blossoming behind my van after only many wrong turns across the railway, saying to me that you know now how to tie a tie, looking like a goddamn equinox (I think I sighed halfway, you leaned a half step forward, still two still solar bodies at hydrostatic equilibrium). But then, I was bringing you through the very halls I wanted to touch you in, showing you the very room I wanted kiss you all sundry bb (an arrow of time crystallized by entropy). Meanwhile, trying not too hard to show in my eyes your eyes. It is a v. terrifying feeling being swept down, drowning at the same time, I mean, wanting to drown together up in Abaddon, Wisconsin (e.g., i.e.).

ADULTHOOD III:

Later, in a van you will recognize a lot of songs from those pink graffiti cds, now scattered across the bedroom floor to remind me (kitten confetti, yo tambien, five-sixteen), and, okay, later, on an apartment couch, we will sing them together around chords, and later still, on that very same apartment couch, I will topple forever, and bring you to my very own room and kiss you and kiss you in bars and pull your hair, which is shorter than mine, and you will ask if I pull hair, and we will both laugh not alone in the kitchen like we thought, and you will put five dollar bills into a jet plane and fly away, and you will take jobs as a biotechnician and I will want you more, in adulthood, to take on jet planes far away, to cook shitty meals and brush teeth together, to write plumbs all night out loud, and I find myself rooting for myself a little bit like duh this could be something, and I find myself waking up in a haze left with a few decorations and memories. Mishhe fuuuu 

You burning me with cigarettes, You wearing my briefs, photographed. 

Sharing starry stares wanting to fail at watching a horror movie or

writing science fiction abt. you.

 --

writing abt. you still.

‘you are beautiful I am sure’

og kanskje med tidsreiser, vil jeg møte deg i en bedre tid og sitat evig solskinn viklet inn i solfylte dagslys for alltid å synge sammen haha

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