There is a romance to be had of all things wanting. A story to be found in all that is hungered for, and goes unfed. This is no masterpiece of theatre. No magnum opus. This is an episode of the unrequited. A tragi-comedy of but minuscule proportions.
Tonight, I want to write to you of longing. Of desire unmet. Of yearning unfulfilled. Tonight I want to write to you of you.
Act I, Scene I: there is a girl and there is a girl. One personifies the querulous expression of the love that cannot be. The other is mute.
Act I, Scene II: sparks in your hand, volts fly on eye contact. If you don’t want me don’t be looking at me that way. You owe me now.
Act I, Scene III: “I have a boyfriend.” “I have a girlfriend.” “I have issues.” “I have a conscience.” “I have… I have thought of nothing but you…”
Act I, Scene IV: What is it to kiss you? I imagine chocolate. And oranges. You touch me now, moving me from the inside. Gooseflesh within, sweat without.
Act II, Scene I: we complete each other’s sentences, we sleep like commas. Our togetherness is an unbroken parentheses. No full stops.
Act II, Scene II: I don’t normally do this kind of thing. What is normal? Is falling in love with friends normal? I don’t want to be normal. I don’t want to be just friends.
Act II, Scene III: you’re running your hands through my hair, now stained & streaked with silver. I’m meeting him. Does it wash off? Never.
Act II, Scene IV: my pick me up, my drop me off. My 24/7. What were days before you were this? What were nights but twelve hours of dark.
Act III, Scene I: What does one need to learn to not want to touch you? What does one need to know to not want to kiss you till you’re blue?
Act III, Scene II: I want silence with you. Silence broken only by the sound of your mouth making love to mine. Your lips. Use them everywhere I cannot see them.
Act III, Scene III: I stare at your face like a madman. Your loveliness has ruined me. Come back. Come back wherever you are. And take your wretched silence with you.
Act III, Scene IV: the sound of a phone unringing is louder than the cacophony of a hundred bells. All is quiet now. Love has run out of words