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Nothing's Gonna Change My World

Updated on August 30, 2012

I should be writing about graduating from a magical place. About the upcoming distance from the only two life-long bonds I've known, or the only third genuine one anyone can ever know. About finally striking off a million options. About the hope of finding my 'calling.' Or being smitten by the charm of responsibilities. About figuring out the key to the lock on the old and dirty window-pane and slowly cracking it open. Or maybe even about the small number of beautiful people I'd like to transport with me. But instead I choose to rant like a child about these 7 days. It's ok, it's alright.

On the third day now, I think I know about all the mistakes I've made. I never should've recoiled after the first time that I let you go. Never should've given in. But once I did I mistook the friendship for the love and the love for the friendship. And now I don't know which one makes it harder to breathe. Harder to not pause at your name. Harder to keep scrolling and pretending that I feel nothing.

You said you weren't my type. And you couldn't be more right. My type would smell like the rain, taste like midnight, sound like the ocean, look like the pages of my favorite book and feel like hot chocolate. He would write songs through the day for me on crumpled sheets of paper, and then play them out on a broken guitar by night. He would say my name each time like he was saying it for the first time. He would have mastered the art of getting by but would only feel extremes by my touch, my presence, my thoughts. He would make sure I knew. He would be the only thing that mattered, that felt better than a combination of chai, cigarettes, a rainy day and Across the Universe. He wouldn't obsess over an adolescent city, but he would appreciate it's murky beauty. He would appreciate it's ability to show dreams, to be the projector of a slideshow, but never confuse it to be the dream itself. He would let his heart break, and then allow someone to fix it, to try and mend it in their own dodgy way. He'd make it rain when my life was a desert and then grab me by the waist and waltz for hours. He would know what, when and how, before I did. He'd be able to make cheap vodka taste like the finest scotch. He would believe in magic and somewhere-far-away and could make me believe in princes and fairy-tales again. All the world's a stage and he would be the director. He wouldn't say one thing and mean another. He wouldn't be able to tell the difference between thorns and roses. Between guns and bullets. Between bloodbaths and strawberry fields. Between me and him.

My type would sweep me off my feet. I deserve my type. You're not my type.

-You may be a lover
But you ain't no dancer : The Beatles


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