racing, screaming to burst out and be a mess on the carpet floors in front of me.
Oh these carpet floors,
where people stand for minutes, fifteen at a time. Some cheating, some giving, but all, all of them leaving.
"why do you do this to yourself?" she asks, pleadingly.
But the girl in question shakes her head dumbly.
For a talker, she always loses her words like this.
For an actor, she always misses her cues.
For a piece broken and re-pieced, she always finds the edge of the table.
For a lover, she always loses.
We sing the same songs, use the same lines, say the same words.
We bring new people to places made special by the old, and we love the only way we've known how.
No it's not a fault, and no it's not wrong.
But I suppose reality comes too much like a bucket of iced water and, as small of an issue it is, it sorta hits you.
All the loveliest things this person is to you, this person has been to someone else,
and will be, to someone else after too.
Of course, we all know this.
Yet for some reason, one can never brace themselves for that single freezing moment when the penny drops.
To find that your favourite pet name used to be someone else's, to think that some of the most picturesque ideas that you've talked about while sitting about in parks might just have been created with one before yourself.
Words, at least for me, aren't difficult to believe because of lies I know we're all capable of telling. Nope, that's not it. They're difficult to believe because I always wonder just how much they might possibly mean if one has used it before with other people.
I've had my feelings scoffed at, laughed at. Been second-guessed, questioned, interrogated. I've had to justify myself, prove the meaning of my words and I have found myself so caught up with the desperate need to have my words be believed that it felt like my insides were creeping up to choke me. I would never, never want for that to happen to anybody else. Even whilst wishing people would think through the cause-and-effect of their words.
I honestly don't think it is for anyone else to say whether or not your words are real. I don't think it is for anyone to decide that you cannot mean what you say simply because you've used those exact same words with the person you were with before, and before that.
When it comes to me-
I pick my words and when I feel ready, and if I feel like I can,
I lay them down like cards on a table. Most times, I feel like I'm putting myself out there, and it isn't the most secure feeling in the world. But whether or not you believe what I say is completely out of my hands.
And when people find words to give me, I'll admit that sometimes I discount them (and if I haven't known you very long, can you blame me?)but I do also try to hold on to all the things that might just be real.
I started this off, upset at the sudden realization that there are and will be pet names/phrases/ideas and dreams that have been said or talked about with one before myself. And bloody hell, that wasn't the nicest feeling in the world as I was leaving, to be quite honest.
But, almost twelve hours on and quite literally, half way across the world (I'm finishing this post off while on the plane), I've figured that it's very simply (and honestly) part and parcel of being with someone who's been with someone else before. Just like having to deal with issues/habits/reactions that have developed either because of having been with other people or because of things that've happened in this person's life. It works both ways, and that's just the way it is.
So, here's something I'd like very much for you to know-
That I believe you.
When you tell me about things that are a first, when you tell me about feelings you haven't felt before, when you tell me about things you've found different.
I believe you.
When you tell me I'm beautiful, that you don't mind picking out faucets and sinks,
that you could get used to this.
I believe you, and somehow, it makes sense to.
And I love you, and am in love with you,
and for once, it doesn't seem like a bad thing.
When I think about all of that, and how I feel, and all these things you manage to make me feel,
those minute, nonsensical things that set me off at the beginning of this post, like on Monday evening,
they don't matter in the least.
They don't anymore, because.
there'll be new things to do, new places to go. There'll be things we'll find special, and mental pictures we'll get to take and hold on to. We'll find dreams to paint, situations to think up, couches to pick out.
And there will always be a whole collection of things created with other people, but there'll also be you and me. And I couldn't possibly ask for more.
Why in the world should any of us rework the scenes that have already been when we can laze about- backs on grass, faces to the sun- devising and creating and dreaming up a whole stream of new scenes that will make up everything else of us?
Most of all, there shouldn't be, there isn't, anything that can make what we have seem any less than what it really is. And I am sorry, for Monday evening; that for even a fraction of a moment I allowed my insecurities make less of what was actually the loveliest start to a week with you.
believe me when I say that no one's made me feel the way you do. That you're quite something special.
That I love you, with everything that I am.
And believe me, when I say, I believe you.