See, the thing is, it’s always been words for me. Sweet somethings dripping deliciously from tongue to ears. Scribbled anythings reeking of blood, sweat and tears. Words, always words.
Synonymous with love&want in my mind, the push and pull of my heartstrings when it comes to the opposite sex has always been intertwined with words. Always words.
It’s words – not the physical or the grand/small gestures – that changes things for me. I need words for like to turn deeper and brighter. I need words for my heart to skip beats. I need words to make me feel and want, to make me happy. Always words.
The men in my life have always understood that about me. That I need to be wooed by words; perfect-smelling secondhand pages of Simon de Beauvoir for Christmases, spontaneous lyrics&poetry scrawled on Leo’s bar napkins, blue envelopes childishly addressed to a London postbox. Words. Always words.
My current man, the S.O is as close to perfect as I’ve ever known. I inwardly gloat over it sometimes. But there is one flaw, just the one – which hurts so much sometimes, I could probably teach myself Advanced Physics in the time I spend pondering on the idea of curling up and dying. Apart from a total disinterest in words, there is also (and so much worse) a total disinterest in my reverence for them. I could wax poetic for days on how words are love. And passion and want and longing and need and everything that keeps my world spinning and worthwhile.
It wouldnt matter.
Im the girl who reads. Im the bookgeek, the storygirl. All 22 years in the making. But instead of doing something, doing anything, saying something, saying anything, thinking something, thinking anything, I find myself swallowing it down instead.
I do anything. I say nothing. I think too many things and then try to think of nothing.
And a lot of the time, I find myself blindsided on some idle day or some random moment by how much it hurts.
But hey, they’re just words. Only words.