/lit/ - Literature

English is not my mother tongue. I wrote something for this girl I think I love, a foreign student, when I got home drunk yesterday. I don't usually do this and I think it's pathetic. But here goes. Maybe someday I would show her she made me write shitty love prose for another.

1/2

I called for you in my mind when I yelled at the drunkards on the parking platform hanging between the two hills, and I thought of your hair. I fell in love that night because I fell in love with myself; rarely can I find myself looking into my unstirred soul as I look into those dark depths of yours and find myself thinking I can not be looking into those eyes and not see myself.

Not one minute was I not thinking of you. When I felt the reciprocity of school-mates, those old young friends of mine, shining with lifeful brightness swaying those cans of beer into the air. The stark music halls echoing throughout the town made me feel queer. I made a million faces and pulled a thousand stunts, made merry gestures towards peoples hearts. I started with throwing coins at the raven-haired one that cut in line. She did not even notice me, both when she stepped in front of me and when I threw stones. All I know is, I thank her for not kicking me to death upon the floor, as I would. I am better now, and better yet I felt my growing for truthful love throughout the night, and I felt I lived a thousand lives. A swindler I was, as always. I yelled at the imprinted balloon of a girl celebrating her birthday, and her angry stare at me made it slip from her hands, and her friend and I were joking about grandmothers as we stared into the floating mess on the ceiling, but I retrieved it. And thinking of all this beauty around me I thought only of you. I would climb searching for ways to make you happy, grasping your screams of joy, I would climb far into the heavy air. I would pull the moon down for you, tie it to your thumb with a silken string. The sunlight would still barely graze your own radiance.