(Source: lanasquotes)632 plays
Today was nice.
What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?
She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On
Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would
wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave
them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and
a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was
studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t
open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call
begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked
walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the
violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my
gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto
the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.
She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd
questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she
couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She
would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,
"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her
eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies
and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll
scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask