Ninva
Ignorant
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His hair is a cherry blond; the type that is close to what is considered ginger but holds a hue that has origins in Dutch. You may say he looks like the men from that famous Dutch painting everyone talks about. I think it's the one with the dead body and the men with surgery utensils pulling out flesh, bone, and organs. Vuil water blust ook een brand. Yeah, I'm sure his grandpa is the guy dead.
His eyes are not too dull – either, though not as brilliant as Athena's. Perhaps something as bright as something or something, blah blah blah. Copper. Not to say his skin is like copper, but his eyes are much like the gleam of it. Let that not seep in too much because I can testify that copper is not the brightest rock.
But let's just say for convenience sake that he has the skin of a ginger: coldly pale with freckles and a hairy disposition. His fingers fat. If a woman were to ever love those sloppy hands, she must be desperate as any person should. This life is lonely. And anyone can look past the fingers, the small feet, the big nose, and double chin. Though he's quite built – and built by what I mean I mean he's fit – as in athletic. Not even Hermes has such an ass. Als de maan vol is, schijnt zij overal.
Bezint eer gij begint. His sharp eyes and firm ass do not permit me to kiss him – though I promise they were reasons for this narrative. Een gewaarschuwd man telt voor twee. And for such reason, I write this tale to bring about how we met. It was rather unsuspecting. I sat across him, locking eyes and playing with feet. We weren't in love, nor did we know our names. He was with his family, and I was with my friends. By said family, I say mean himself as families often really are. He was a waiter we convinced to sit with us as we told him things. It was a slow day.
“What is your name?” We asked him. Everyone anticipated something awful.
“Michael,” he said. Like the angle – who is like god.
How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
Shakespeare
“Michael, are you a ginger?” Sarah said, deliberately sipping from her soda.
“No,” he said, “but I often wish I were.”
There were fireworks.
Amidst the noisy ball, in Hell
Of everyday distress,
I’ve seen you, but the secret’s veil
Was covering your face.
Pushkin
How then does love and hope come? We often hold on to both as tumors the flesh. They grow and bloat and rot and mold. We love as we did but not as we do because we hold onto what we thought was a thought we once knew. And if such a thought were to be renewed in a peace or war, we would all be Buddhist or something, something better before. But unlike that truth we endure, we're rather interact as if we were swinging at door posts, throwing punches not at faces but at their representative. It's as much as a cane to a senator Charles Sumner than an apple from Eve.
Fire burns up and water disperses. God and the devil are never eternal. Iedereen heeft wel eens geluk! But in his kiss, that weekend at the game, I felt his touch – his breath and lip. I was in love since then, and I doubt less of it now. This love has changed, yet I too can not hold on – to such a thing that has grown and changed. I want it to be mine. Be mine. Be home. Be still.
As lovers do, we held onto hands – the cold breeze did hold us too. I shivered, and he sighed: “What can I do to warm you?” He cried. I glared up at him, being slightly smaller than he, which I enjoyed.
“You can shut the fuck up. I'm fine.” I was not.
My heart was bleeding into my thigh. My eyes were drenching with the beating rhythm, and the joy which came from such a pain overrode my shame. I held his hand. I held it in the cold. We held it in vain, yet we held it the same. And we bitterly knew it.
On his bed I laid many nights – many nights wondering if I could ever be home. I wondered if the bed could be my home, but an undergraduate dorm is no place to be safe. I stayed up countless nights while he slumbered. This is what love is and nothing more.
---
His hair is a cherry blond; the type that is close to what is considered ginger but holds a hue that has origins in Dutch. You may say he looks like the men from that famous Dutch painting everyone talks about. I think it's the one with the dead body and the men with surgery utensils pulling out flesh, bone, and organs. Vuil water blust ook een brand. Yeah, I'm sure his grandpa is the guy dead.
His eyes are not too dull – either, though not as brilliant as Athena's. Perhaps something as bright as something or something, blah blah blah. Copper. Not to say his skin is like copper, but his eyes are much like the gleam of it. Let that not seep in too much because I can testify that copper is not the brightest rock.
But let's just say for convenience sake that he has the skin of a ginger: coldly pale with freckles and a hairy disposition. His fingers fat. If a woman were to ever love those sloppy hands, she must be desperate as any person should. This life is lonely. And anyone can look past the fingers, the small feet, the big nose, and double chin. Though he's quite built – and built by what I mean I mean he's fit – as in athletic. Not even Hermes has such an ass. Als de maan vol is, schijnt zij overal.
Bezint eer gij begint. His sharp eyes and firm ass do not permit me to kiss him – though I promise they were reasons for this narrative. Een gewaarschuwd man telt voor twee. And for such reason, I write this tale to bring about how we met. It was rather unsuspecting. I sat across him, locking eyes and playing with feet. We weren't in love, nor did we know our names. He was with his family, and I was with my friends. By said family, I say mean himself as families often really are. He was a waiter we convinced to sit with us as we told him things. It was a slow day.
“What is your name?” We asked him. Everyone anticipated something awful.
“Michael,” he said. Like the angle – who is like god.
How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, and the place death, considering who thou art, if any of my kinsmen find thee here. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do that dares love attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
Shakespeare
“Michael, are you a ginger?” Sarah said, deliberately sipping from her soda.
“No,” he said, “but I often wish I were.”
There were fireworks.
Amidst the noisy ball, in Hell
Of everyday distress,
I’ve seen you, but the secret’s veil
Was covering your face.
Pushkin
How then does love and hope come? We often hold on to both as tumors the flesh. They grow and bloat and rot and mold. We love as we did but not as we do because we hold onto what we thought was a thought we once knew. And if such a thought were to be renewed in a peace or war, we would all be Buddhist or something, something better before. But unlike that truth we endure, we're rather interact as if we were swinging at door posts, throwing punches not at faces but at their representative. It's as much as a cane to a senator Charles Sumner than an apple from Eve.
Fire burns up and water disperses. God and the devil are never eternal. Iedereen heeft wel eens geluk! But in his kiss, that weekend at the game, I felt his touch – his breath and lip. I was in love since then, and I doubt less of it now. This love has changed, yet I too can not hold on – to such a thing that has grown and changed. I want it to be mine. Be mine. Be home. Be still.
As lovers do, we held onto hands – the cold breeze did hold us too. I shivered, and he sighed: “What can I do to warm you?” He cried. I glared up at him, being slightly smaller than he, which I enjoyed.
“You can shut the fuck up. I'm fine.” I was not.
My heart was bleeding into my thigh. My eyes were drenching with the beating rhythm, and the joy which came from such a pain overrode my shame. I held his hand. I held it in the cold. We held it in vain, yet we held it the same. And we bitterly knew it.
On his bed I laid many nights – many nights wondering if I could ever be home. I wondered if the bed could be my home, but an undergraduate dorm is no place to be safe. I stayed up countless nights while he slumbered. This is what love is and nothing more.
!
