Thinking about someone forever warm.
Ringing of the phone.
A beep that resounds defeat. The call goes to voice messages.
“Um…hey. Are you alright? [A pause] That’s fine. I understand. The ticking of the clock feels like sandpaper against your tongue, doesn’t it? Hmm. I’ve been laughing a lot at my own jokes lately. I guess you could call that self-love, am I right? But…my self-love seems to be something so, so delicate…like a cloud. You know clouds aren’t actually white? It’s just that the particles in them are big enough to disperse light completely, and so, you know, they appear white. But then I guess everything isn’t actually composed of a colour. Objects simply absorb certain colours and reflect others. And it’s the reflected ones we see. What we show ourselves to be is what we aren’t. Such…what a concept, right? Anyway, I’m just…rambling. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I thought about getting you a flower, but then, umm…I don’t really like them. I gave up on them when I saw them die all the time. And anyway, that would be too forward. And I love how we’re an ‘almost’…you know. Almost there but not quite. Like a child reaching for cookies placed on the top shelf. Like the way my mother closes the door of my room incompletely. We’re the gap through which the sliver of light falls on the floor. But you know what I think sometimes? That maybe, on some days, we’re also the sliver of light. Yeah. You know, maybe this is the alcohol talking, but there are times when I don’t know what I’m waiting for…but the wait still feels worth it. And suddenly I think of you as a bus stop. We’re the space between the rainfall and the arrival of the bus. On such days, I like to stand in the open and think of you as an umbrella. Hmm. Man, you see? You’re…you’re gentle and catastrophic at the same time — I know, I know that I don’t know you very well and we’ve just met, but — it’s what you feel like. God knows why I’ve been thinking of you so much. Thoughts about you just seem to float around like dandelions. In this metaphor, you’re the summer breeze. This voice, these words — you know how when, sometimes, you put down the receiver of the phone and the static seems to be louder than the voice of the person you love? That’s how I’ve been missing you. Like static. Like the fall of a bougainvillaea petal searching for the place it will rest at. Ah, well. Hmm. Oh, also, my feet have been feeling really warm at night, as if the monster under the bed has a cooking pot under just my thighs. They’re sweating a lot. I don’t know…it just — it — it irritates me. And it’s not just my legs that feel out of place. My entire body seems to be searching for a season that has already left us. How do I tell it about the art of moving on? Don’t let memory taint your brushstrokes, don’t let reminiscence corrupt the shade you’ve perfectly made in the colour pallet, and don’t let longing rip apart your canvas. Just move on. Huh, I’m not handling homesickness well, am I? I don’t want to say much about you, now. It’s a quiet afternoon and I’ve had a couple of drinks — don’t ask me why — and, and I just…don’t want to say anything I’ll regret. It’ll make me think of you more, but then, in a negative sense. You know, something along the lines of “Why the fuck did I say that she will never love me now”. Love. Love…nope, nope, not going down that path. Been there, done that. I don’t like mosquitoes, man. Or the complicated buffets which scare me when I’m high. But mosquitoes more. Like…please stop sucking my blood, thank you very much. You know if you do want my blood so bad then by all means, take it, you know (I read that female mosquitoes take our blood to keep their babies warm so, yeah, go ahead, that’s how you’ve been made, it’s not your fault, you gotta do it for your children, I guess) but then why the fuck do your bites itch so much? Goddamit. Fucking cunts. That’s one thing I like about winter: those bloodsuckers can’t buzz about in my ears any longer. Assholes. But I think my favourite season would be…monsoon? I’m not sure anymore man. Summer is cool too. Well, not…cool, but you get the point. I like spring. And autumn. Winter too. Ah well. I guess I like everything. But yeah, you already know about my love for the rains. Yeah, yeah, yeah, typical poet shit. Could I be more clichéd? But I do like it, you know? The droplets racing against each other on green leaves. The way the petrichor hits your lungs to remind you of your past. Yeah. You know what I want to do? I want to listen to songs. Yeah. It’s quite now, the siesta has shut the world up. I think I’ll sleep for a while too. Listen to post-rock (yeah that’s another thing I love, so start making notes). I hope you’re alright though. Call me when you’re free. Maybe then we can be homesick together. Well, yeah, that’s all for now, I guess. Goodbye.”