Today is Monday. Tomorrow will be Tuesday (I hope). Outside of the fact that I haven't worked out in days (OK, weeks, heh), I find myself somewhat nervous that I'm a senior in college. I also find myself shoved back into sharp nostalgia. I can't help it. Every time I have to pause to think of the past-tense subjunctive in Italian, I have to think of myself having the same thought process while talking to a smiling Italian.
I remember when I bought 2 roses for two of my lovely friends in Italy. The day was a day to celebrate women, and it was customary to deliver flowers to them. I was walking through Florence dressed in leather and dark grays, while contrasted by two red roses. Old women smiled at me as I walked past, younger ones looked longer, and I may have never had a more romantic moment in my life.
Have I? I've had poems burning on my tongue with so much urgency that I could barely find paper to write them in time. I have so many things written and never said. I have a small book I keep with me and every time I get a slant of a smile over some silly subject, I can flip it open and write write write. It's a nice experience. It's not going to land me a job. I find it hard to see what the problem is with that, though, when I can make people smile. Isn't that simple? Tragically so? Perhaps, perhaps.
I find myself surprised that beauty could upset me. Over the glow of a TV screen, the light seemed to settle into every wonderful feature of her face, darkened her eyes until they blended in with the shadows, emphasised the slight curl of her hair when it reached her shoulders, and I could practically melt into the couch, slide in-between the cushions and get lost like so much spare change. And it frustrates me, because sometimes I want to hold her. I want to have the fortune of knowing what her hair smells like. These things sound small. I can promise you that they aren't. They loom with all the authority of mountains sometimes, but it is my most well-meaning action to press them down to dust, swallow, and be content in friendship.
Friendship certainly, certainly isn't a bad thing. I love it. It would help if I wasn't totally infatuated. It would help if I didn't already know how she kissed, how she tastes. This entry isn't doing any good, either. There's no purpose to it other than the fact that I'm here at night writing. And as far as Having Problems go, I could be starving or have a terminal disease. But it's these problems that demand so much attention from me... I think it's because I try to keep in focus the things that really matter to me.
Well, she matters to me.
to the cold comfort of a pillow,
Jared