I have the worst propensity to fall in love with boys I don’t know. Not in person, at least. I’d come across a piece of art they had made, or a poem they’d written, or an image they’d captured, or a song they’re strumming /crooning/wailing through a microphone and my heart and logic fall into smithereens.
I fall in love with creative boys. Pardon, men. When particles of a person is gathered and percolated into some form of creation, and when my mind follows the crevices and swirls of his story I learn to love a facet of the creator. It’s easy to love someone from his work because without knowing his person, I make up this ideal of him from the works he has distilled for me and ideals are much easier to love than actual human beings. Noted, a love of ideals can also go disturbingly wrong. Take for example, Fascism.
A friend recently gave me a piece of artwork for my birthday and I was smug for days. Pre-pubescent giggling kind of smug. I’ve written verse for people too, which were met with equivalent response. I don’t think the men quite giggled. Maybe they do in private. But I feel something untranslatable happens in these exchanges, when we give someone a portion of ourselves. I could be waxing romantic about it, but I don’t think anyone dislike something that is created specifically for them. Twenty-five-years-old macaroni-necklaces attest to this phenomenon. There is the intangible in these tangible objects, that when the desiccated corsage is pulled from a drawer and a letter creased yellow, gingerly re-opened after four decades and two wars and three children (one dead), we find that facet of the person again.
Marry him. Don’t ask, or date him or anything, just happen to invite him and a justice of the peace over for a cookout. The JotP can be like, “Oops! I tripped over this hose and pronounced you man and wife.” Stealth marriage.
AND WE’LL HAVE WITNESSES.
Genius.
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