For Charles T. Scott,
Gatsby was never quite real to me. His original served for a good enough exterior until about the middle of the book he grew thin and I began to fill him with my own emotional life. So he’s synthetic – and that’s one of the flaws in this book.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ellerslie, Edgemoore, Delaware, 1927
Half of me wants to smoke Marlboros with you and stain our skin with ash and ink and blood and sweat and kisses – everything that epitomises the lust that hangs in the air when we enter the same room. Half of me wants to devour you wholeheartedly, at once, until there is nothing left but the whisper of your existence. But the other half of me wants to write poems about you because every love song fits, and every great love story reminds me of us. It wants to dress up in a tiny black dress and feel you caress the dip of my spine whilst we slow dance to dulcet tones of our love’s journey. It wants to write you letters every day of the week so you know what my love for you sounds like; what true love really is.
He’s my favourite book; the vintage edition with the slightly worn-out pages, the binding disintegrating with my every touch so that I have to handle with care. He’s the cliffhanger and the happy ending that I desperately crave. He’s not the most popular book in the bookstore; he’s not at the shop-front, catching everyone’s eye in the window with his self-righteous front cover but he is my favourite piece of art. I like that about him. He’s not what people expect. And that is why he is mine.
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not even loss.
You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again.
My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.
She imagines him imagining her.
This is her salvation.
The Blind Assassin
When I stare into your eyes
and you stare back into mine
I don’t just see the surface
I see the galaxies as they hide.
And for those fleeting moments
I know not of gruesome thoughts
but rather of the cosmos
the stars, your eyes have caught.
It’s as if you swallowed night
just to take my breath away
the universe is endless
and my feelings are the same.
Striking depths of space I see
your eyes provide this view
what do you think while you search mine?
All I think is, ‘I love you.’
“You’re only given one little spark of madness. You musn’t lose it.”
Follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly