Diametric Pressure
Where the separate sides of me converge
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Gabriel
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Dear Brother,
I asked a while ago if anyone wanted me to record my poetry. For some reason a few of you said yes. This is the first piece, which I promise I have been trying to upload for weeks. (I haven’t had much spare time lately.)
I wrote this in my senior year of high school, which was 2011. It was a very weird time in my life, when a lot of things were changing (besides just the end of high school, the going off to college) and I was really stuck. I was really confused about who I was and who I wanted to be. I still don’t know, but I imagined my brother might be able to help me through it, and so I wrote him this. This is now two years old and it is still very, very special to me. I read this to a coworker for the first time a couple of weeks ago and she cried. That was the first time anyone had ever cried over anything I’ve ever written. I still don’t understand, but I hope that you enjoy this as much as she did.
Please check the tags on this post when you are finished with the video.
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My voice is not talented enough for singing, so I must settle for poetry instead. For this, darling, I am sorry because trust me, I know that these sentiments would sound so much better in song. You have taught me that much. But you must understand that I have no gift for melody, just words, and although I try to make them pretty, sometimes they just fall short. With no musical backbone to hold them together, all of these things I keep trying to tell you are ephemeral, and I know you will not remember them. It is only because you sing to me that I have memorized everything you have ever said, because you are the melody to my harmony and I am an auditory learner. All I can do is figure out where the crescendos go. It is you who makes this song worth singing.
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Soooo…. I wrote this. xD On twitter. For Cam. As he was passing out in his cheesy bread after a night of drinking. Apparently it is “omo kawaii desu.” You’re welcome sweetie, but somehow I doubt you will be as amused when you’re sober.
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I want to put my lips on yours, taste all the emotion stuck to the roof of your mouth, all the untold stories lying half-constructed beneath your tongue. I want to trail kisses across your jaw, mark your throat with halfhearted attempts to drown myself in your voice, leave music staffs across your shoulders, down your ribs, as space for the melodies of old beds and heavy sighs to write themselves into your bones. I want to embed my breath into your nerves, trickles of life across your fingertips and hipbones, brought back on shudders of muscle memory when you touch anything too softly. I want to hear my name come low from your pretty mouth, feel the New York City fire in your eyes burning down my heart. I want the palpitating, stomach-dropping caused by the curve of your smile and the way your hand feels in mine. Dear Lord, but you are beautiful, from your canines to the way that they find purchase in my neck I swear you are the work of angels, even if you don’t.
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I am not nearly as good of a writer as you think I am. I lash together pretty words into rafts that dissolve in open sea. This work will not be good forever. Every sentence has a breaking point, every metaphor frayed along the edges and begging for someone to unravel it. It always seems like I have a lot to say but I never actually get around to saying it. I am not a novel. I am a dictionary full of empty promises and beginnings that never meet their maker.
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It’s not an exact transcript, but I sent this (minus the last set of parentheses) at 3:30 this morning. Twelve pages.
