I miss your scent as it lays beside me in my bed, as it folds into the creases of my clothing, as it lingers ever so temptingly - hanging from my nostrils like a noose - never to be touched.
I miss the comfort of the smell of a lover.
I went to the gym, for I needed bigger muscles.
I was far too thin and I needed bigger muscles.
So my chicken legs dragged my lanky arms to the gym to get myself some muscles.
I lifted and dropped and planked and hopped and pushed and pulled and flexed.
Squats, rows, presses, bench.
Weights and cords.
Balls and bars.
Protein shakes and raw eggs.
Everyday of every week, I watched as I got bigger.
I ran for miles and miles to strengthen my heart.
I knew I had done it; I had my bigger muscles.
I knocked on your door, “Bang! Bang!”, with the help of my bulging triceps. You opened the door and I smiled with my orbicularis oris.
But you ran, oh you ran, past me and my magnificent muscles.
I chased you, yes I chased you, and got there first because of my glorious muscles.
I watched as you fell to pieces.
I was ready.
One by one, I picked up the heavy pieces. Quads and glutes and hamstrings and calves. Forearms, triceps, biceps, deltoids, trapezius. Rectus abdominus to latissimus and longissimus dorsi. All worked towards a similar goal. My muscles carried and transported the pieces to your house. With my muscles, I began to solve the puzzle of your weighty parts. With my muscles, I held them all together. With my muscles, I took the last piece - your tremendously heavy heart - and supported it in your chest.
I lifted the weight. I lifted its burden. I held all your pieces together and made you whole.
With my bigger muscles I could do this, but it was the involuntary striated ones that kept me from breaking.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe “love forever” isn’t so scary after all.
I trust in this love; I believe it.
Is it weird that I’m a little afraid of “love forever”?
Listening to Hello Sadness. I feel like this album needs to be one that is playing in the background while you’re clenching onto the back of someone’s shirt, pulling them close, arms tensed, head buried deep into their collar bone, lying in bed with the blankets a strangling mess around your legs. It’s a strange thing for me to connect a break-up type of album with being with someone as apposed to clenching the blankets and being swallowed up by the emptiness of the bed and of your heavy heart. But maybe there is something about sharing those feelings of sadness and understanding that makes being with someone an experience worth participating in. Love ends. There is no reason to avoid the fear of it, and being able to see that together with open eyes while taking in the joy of still having love and a body to hold and joy. A lot of joy, and smiles, and laughs. But there is nothing wrong with shaking voices and tears and fright. I just see an appeal in going through that with someone by my side.