"Dear white people: The minimum requirement of black friends needed to not seem racist has just been raised to two"
I’m still writing, I still speak to myself with hopes that you hear me,
I still scream with hopes that one day, you message me out of the blue, out of nowhere, out of the unbearable silence to ask me how I am
That this period of distance was not that far at all, even when we move forward with our lives, I need to know we never went to waste.
Dreams and confessions of our fears sticks to me
You’re stuck in me
We will be close on Friday 18 July.
We will be so close on Friday 18 July. For one night only I will hold your face in my hands and I will kiss you quickly and then slowly and then quickly and we will feel this incredible connection and we will tell each other everything.
On Friday 18 July, we will feed each other berries, and we will sing-mumble-slur old half-remembered camp songs, and we will laugh about how there was a time, not even that long ago, when we hadn’t even met, and what were we doing not meeting, who were we fooling, whose time were we wasting?
Sitting on my bed, recalling the origin of your knee’s crescent moon scar, you’ll gesticulate wildly and I’ll watch the cigarette sparks like evaporating fireflies, dizzy for a home in your discarded black blouse.
"I want to know you completely," I’ll whisper into every crevice of your body. We’ll make up constellations out of the freckles on our thighs, rich mythologies of ancient long-dead civilizations.
"Did you know I can juggle?" you’ll say, and I’ll say, "Show me."
Every other night will have been rehearsal for Friday 18 July — we had to be ready. Everything was pushing us imperceptibly toward this moment — if I hadn’t missed that train, if you hadn’t moved for the job, just imagine.
"I don’t want it to be tomorrow," you’ll say, a single tear escaping as you bitterly laugh at the futility of the sentiment. "I want it to be Friday July 18 forever."
And when the morning comes, our love, like bugs, will scatter in the light. We will dress ourselves while facing the wall, we will scramble for our phones, we will be strangers.
And we will realize that Friday July 18, like every day in history before it, was a moment, a twenty-four-hour trick of the light, a thing that happened once and never again.
And that sad truth will just about swallow us whole.
Sorry for any inconvinience.
Dial Drunk Dad by SARA BIVIGOU 1. Everything I know about drunk dialing I learnt from my …
thank u my #1 tip for growing long hair fast is: buy it
this is in heavy rotation today