October 16, 2009 § Leave a comment

Of course you have guilty pleasures. Of course you went to high school. Of course this is the house you grew up in. But none of it was there until that day you walked up to me at ACE bar and told me I had a piece of barfruit stuck in my hair. Even then you were just some human-shaped particle synthesizing from the nothingness, blurry around the edges. Holographic almost. You didn’t have any interests, favorite bands, hobbies, siblings or scars from old sports injuries yet. I don’t even think you had an eye color when you asked if you could see me again. Those things came later.

Your detestment for sweets manifested itself when I wore candy-flavored lip gloss to match my neon leggings and French tutu to the Coney Island freak show and you recoiled at the scent.

Your 26 stiches raised and pinkened the first time I ran my fingertips under your shirt and across your shoulderblades on the train to Barcelona.

Beirut never wrote any music at all before you leaned across the table at Cafe du Monde with a giant grin on your face that also never existed before the moment you grinned it and plugged one earphone into my head.  The other stayed in your ear which also just popped into being because your hair was long enough that I’d somehow never seen your ears before.

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