Always in the end you will have intentionally well angled photos or polaroids or photographs you’ve edited to look like polaroids. Always in the end you will erase these and wonder if the next round of photographs, of memories, of sheets, will feel as good and you will hope it will not feel as good but better and you will hope that you never again have to ceremoniously erase, delete, and throw out the snapshots that you carefully and lovingly created. The belief that you will have photographs of the two of you forever- lips buried in necks, mouths open mid sentence with light pouring out from inside of you, sleepy morning eyes with dry lips and soft curves-the belief that you will never throw these away, this time, is what makes people fall in love all over again despite history and despite plain common sense.

I could tell I really could fall in love with him because the last time I felt this way about someone, (when I was too tangled up in body and in heart with another to really even notice) I could not stop giggling and eating off their plate.  Jesus, stop speaking so much and so quickly.. I thought to myself several times over the course of four hours. I just want to write about how I have not yet touched him, not even a hug, and yet the thought of perhaps feeling his skin underneath my fingertips has made my stomach flutter today a few times over. 

Normally, I would not have gone, I would not have looked forward to it. When you work long hours speaking to people and having inane conversation after inane conversation the thought of repeating it, socially and by choice, is unappealing. But with him, I didn’t even really consider-I just went. When we were walking towards the corner, after he showed me his office covered in art work and sketches of happy thoughts and multicolored floor pillows,  I told him I did not know anything about art. And for some reason i told him about when I went to New York City and saw Marina Abramovic and that her “Nude With Skeleton” piece made me cry. I told him I cried over a piece of art. I really did… I did not tell him that it made me cry because Abramovic did this for 700 hours, lay nude with a skeleton on top of her that is, to emulate a tibetan ritual of getting closer to death by sleeping next to or near decaying or decayed human bodies.

I did not tell him that it made me cry because it made me think of my mother, no hair, delicate like a tiny rose in familiar sheets and a familiar room but in a foreign world, and how I use to lay alongside her and run my fingertips along her skin when she slept or rested or just closed her eyes from the pain and from the trauma of it all. I didn’t tell him this of course, we had only just met, but I could have and I considered it briefly, and this means, I think, that I could love him in some way. In a way that includes intentionally made to look antique photographs or in a way that includes thai food and no make up and no pretenses… Or maybe in some of these ways, or maybe in none of these ways, or maybe, just maybe in all these ways.