Work Text:
CARPE
DIEM
subordination as a(n ignored) sign of devotion love
at twelve, it was walking to school together and not tearing my eyes from his face.
at seventeen, it’s being unable to fully focus when you are in the room
childlike wonder vs. guilty realizations
why do you have to spend so much time on those rehearsals? what did you get lost there? i’m really happy that you’re pursuing your dreams but why can’t you just stay here with me?
there’s just never been someone who got me like you do
you have the most gorgeous eyes i’ve ever seen
i get lost in them
i could get drowned in them
it feels like there’s not a single second your eyes are open that i’m not looking at them
they say eyes are the windows to the soul
i don’t think there have ever existed a pair so sincere
am i in your subconscious? you are on my conscience
you’re clever; you know what you mean to me
you are forgetful (generally) but you listen (generally?)
elaborating on: there’s just never been someone who got me like you do
you know to insist when i want to do something, just don’t know how to do it. and you know (better than to keep going) when i just don’t
“Todd Anderson, because he prefers not to read, will keep minutes of the meetings.” i did not tell you to say that. you wanted me there and found the way to do it. you wanted me there. i can quote that without effort. how did you do that so effortless?
i don’t understand how it’s possible that not everyone loves you like i do.
i don’t believe anyone could love you like i do.
when you point out the common stuff i do, i don’t know whether you mean it as appreciation of shared traits or in kind of a derogatory manner
is it really that weird how obsessed i am with this boy if charlie sounds most authentic when talking about him
caught this on the radio tonight:
“will the end result deflate me,
or will you annihilate me?
you aggravate me
you irritate me
you fascinate me so”
i want to hear one song without thinking of you
he rips pages from his notebooks
and sets aside the leftover threads of paper
i pick them up
and make tens of little balls with them
that i find later on
everywhere
(there is a metaphor hiding here
about overthinking actions that he didn’t even notice)
stop drawing on my hands when you’re bored of studying i’m tired of pretending i find it annoying to have your mark on me
i wrote my first Poem in welton when i thought you were taken
i wrote the first good one when i knew you were taken (you weren’t)
i wrote my first ever poem– well, it wasn’t about you. but it could’ve been? well, no, it couldn’t have
i wish charlie would stop sneaking alcohol into the cave i’ve never been drunk i don’t know if i can trust myself around neil in that state
remember that time mr. keating brought stamps to class and used it on our hands?
ten minutes later mine was a shapeless blot
at the end of the day i could still recognise the curves of the typography on yours
when we got out of the cave and my coat was a mess of crumbs and dirt, you offered yours, even though you shivered all the way back
it’s completely contradictory but, sometimes, the moments that feel the most poetic when you’re living them are the hardest to put into pretty words
i could talk about how the stars shone that night, or i could mention how at least it gave you an excuse to come really close while we walked
1989
I’m glad a recollection of these feelings and memories exists.
I just wished it didn’t have to be this painful.