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Something given, something taken away. Does it always have to work like that?

Gayle Forman

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Gayle Forman
Age: 54
Born: 1970
Born: June 5
Writer
LA
California
Taken
Given
Away
Doe
Work
Something
Always
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He can't possibly live up to the person you've built him to be
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I don't hate you. I don't think I ever really did. It was just anger. And once I faced it head-on, once understood it, it dissipated. -Mia
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I'll be your mess,you be mine That was the deal that we had signed I bought a hazmat suit to clean up your waste Gas masks,gloves,to keep us safe But now i'm alone in an empty room Staring down immaculate doom Messy
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Forward momentum. That's my new motto. No regrets. And no going back.
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I want to make her cry and then lick up the tears.
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And our lips. There isn't enough skin, enough spit, enough time, for the lost years that our lips are trying to make up for as they find each other. We kiss. The electric current switches to high. The lights throughout all of Brooklyn must be surging.
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My first impulse is not to grab her or kiss her or yell at her. I simple want to touch her cheek, still flushed from the night's performance. I want to cut through the space that separates us, measured in feet-not miles, not continents, not years-and to take a callused finger to her face.
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If I stay. If I live. It's up to me.
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She's still beautiful. Not in an obvious Vanessa LeGrande or Byrn Shraeder kind of way. In a quiet way that's always been devastating to me.
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And I kissed him back so hard, like I was trying to merge our bodies through our lips.
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But then Mason touches my neck, to the spot on it where the cut from that night has since healed, and I pull away. He was right, after all it didn't leave a scar, though part of me wishes it had. At least I'd have some evidence, some justification of this permanence. Stains are even worse when you're the only one who can see them.
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I want to undo this. To make it right. But I have no idea how. I don't seem to know how to open up to people without getting the door slammed in my face. So I do nothing.
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I'm not choosing, but I'm running out of fight.
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Then I smell the sweat on him, a clean musky scent that I'd bottle and wear as perfume if I could.
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That’s the thing you never expect about grieving, what a competition it is.
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