I have always wondered why four is your lucky number. It’s not in your date of birth, nor an exact amount that ever proved to be of meaning for you – it was nowhere to be found, except for this sheer feeling of luck that was connected to it. It was a question you could never fully answer, so it became uninteresting to ask.
Why do people perceive taste so different, why do some of us enjoy sweets more whilst others enjoy crisps and other salty snacks? Is this connected to the taste buds, sense of smell, or is it wired in our brain – how our receptors work?
How much can we change whilst staying the same? Is there really a core ‘self’ that is impossible to shed? How much have I changed in a year, rethought, retouched, and rewired – but still not much of a sweet tooth. Where are the borders of change, and if they at all exist, are they solid, or shifting?
Could it be that your lucky number connects to the four seasons, that it fills a year? In this past year, have you reinvented your own self – rebuild you – deleted an old identity? Have you shed your past, or do you still think of me?
Just briefly it felt like spring. Was it due to the sudden rise of temperature? Was it because the sun finally won the battle against those boring light-grey clouds of winter? Or was it Valentine’s Day – Did it feel like spring because butterflies briefly upset my stomach when I heard your distant, uninterested voice?
He, on the other hand, wakes me up by softly kissing my neck. We wander on a wonderful adventure in this state of half-sleep. His warmth is welcoming, chasing winter out in an alternative way. He sent me flowers, so I smiled every time I walked past them. We had breakfast in bed, pleasantly surviving on our tiny island away from the world. When he leaves, there is no sweet talk, no saddening goodbyes. He will be back for philosophy, red wine, late drunken nights, and body language.
Yet, he doesn’t shake me. He’s not in my daydreams – he’s just there. He is my wonderful temporary comfort. His goodbyes are not soul-crushing, his absent not devastating. He does not leave me delusional from longing. He is not you, because you are everything, except here.
I felt like writing to you,
but deafened the urge.
So now I sit in loneliness
awaiting your call.
I can’t remember your voice,
but you must’ve sound like
because the haloesque vision of you
can’t seem to dim.
You’re the drug I want to kick off
The memory in that drunken song.
You’re my locked up elephant
I dare never to speak off.
You’re the broken windshield
that doesn’t annoy me anymore.
The dangers are just around the corner,
I’m living life on a western edge.
A first world problem:
I would put myself on a diet for you,
but you wouldn’t even notice
in those jeans.
So there you leave.
Too early for breakfast,
too late to call it a night.
You look even better with a hangover.
I’m wearing your sweater, because you cannot warm me.
My heart is bitten by the frost of this concrete winter.
It was a long day. A day of running around and I’m finally home, exhausted. I let myself fall onto bed, close my eyes. I breathe in, hold the breath for a moment and breathe out. All is well, I smile; it was a good day. You haven’t been on my mind at all, but there you are again, just in time for dinner. It’s a memory: We’re sat next to each other in the sunshine and you’re on the phone. Even though you’re next to me, I’m lonely; the conversation is taking too long. You’re next to me, but so far away. Our eyes lock, you smile apologetic in your attempt to finish the conversation and return to me. The memory fades out, you never returned, I won’t let the memory finish – it’s a beautiful, terrible, history. I stare up to the ceiling: it’s white, blank, just like my mind. Now it really is time for dinner, so I get up and leave you behind.
The clouds were covering up the city; I could only see a few meters before the view was caught up in a white cold pillow. It’s a funny thing: fog. It takes away sight, but at the same time makes the world appear lighter. Nighttime was suddenly mixed with the brightness of tiny water droplets, suspended in the atmosphere, reflecting the streetlights. It’s even a better play on word in Dutch: mist, the same word for missing. Just how I was missing you, as I navigated my way back home through the unidentifiable landscape. You are fogging up my mind and somehow making it appear brighter than it effectively is. I was shivering, I was smiling, I was lost in my own city; yet, I didn’t feel lost at all. You made me delusional and I translate this illusion to magic. I don’t want to give up this shimmer of hope. For now, let my world appear a little brighter before you blow my house of cards down – and the fog dissipates.
I miss you: my best friend. I miss your warmth, and your everlasting endurance of cold-feet-in-bed. I miss our car ‘singing’, late at night as we drove back home. I miss the funny faces you can pull, favourably on random sent pictures during the day. I miss your scent, your touch. I miss you dancing to music I don’t particularly enjoy at 7:30 in the morning. I miss your voice, with its tired sound, as you’re about to fall asleep. I miss your laugh, your smile, your eyes. I miss your kisses, whose memory of has slowly been fading. I miss you. Even if you don’t miss me at all.