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Neil Hilborn

Our Numbered Days

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  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    I am just
    carbon and bad timing.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    I don’t know where I will get
    the money, I don’t know what
    I will tell my friends, I don’t know how
    we will love each other in the nights of cold
    and quiet, but airplanes exist and will fly
    between where I live and where you are
    so hold on, I’m coming.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    I will have
    fun like my life depends on it
    because it does.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    The first time I saw her, everything
    in my head went quiet. All the tics,
    all the constantly refreshing images,
    just disappeared. When you have
    Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,
    you don’t really get quiet moments.
    Even in bed I’m thinking
    did I lock the door yes
    did I wash my hands yes
    did I lock the door yes
    did I wash my hands yes.
    But when I saw her, the only thing
    I could think about was the hairpin curve
    of her lips or the eyelash on her cheek
    the eyelash on her cheek
    the eyelash on her cheek.
    I knew I had to talk to her.
    I asked her out six times.
    In thirty seconds. She said yes
    after the third one, but none of them
    felt right so I had to keep going.
    On our first date, I spent more time
    organizing my meal by color
    than I did eating or talking to her,
    but she loved it. She loved
    that I had to kiss her goodbye
    sixteen times, or twenty-four times
    if it was Wednesday. She loved that
    it took me forever to walk home
    because there are a lot of cracks
    in our sidewalk.
    When we moved in together,
    she said that she felt safe,
    like no one would ever rob us
    because I definitely locked the door
    18 times. I’d always watch her mouth
    when she talked when she talked when
    she talked when she talked. When she
    said she loved me, her mouth would curl up
    at the edges. At night, she’d lay in bed
    and watch me turn all the lights off and on
    and off and on and off and on and off
    and on and off. She’d close her eyes
    and imagine that days and nights
    were passing in front of her.
    Some mornings, I’d start kissing her
    goodbye but she’d just leave because
    I was making her late for work.
    When I stopped at a crack in the sidewalk,
    she just kept walking. When she said
    she loved me, her mouth was a straight line.
    She told me I was taking up too much
    of her time. Last week she started
    sleeping at her mother’s place.
    She told me that she shouldn’t
    have let me get so attached to her,
    that this whole thing was a mistake,
    but how can it be a mistake
    that I don’t have to wash my hands
    after I touch her? Love is not a mistake.
    It’s killing me that she can run away
    from this and I just can’t. I can’t
    go out and find someone new
    because I always think of her.
    Usually, when I obsess over things,
    I see germs sneaking into my skin.
    I see myself crushed by an endless
    succession of cars. She was the first
    beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
    I want to wake up every morning
    thinking about the way she
    holds her steering wheel. How she turns
    shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.
    How she blows out candles blows out
    candles blows out candles
    blows out candles blows out
    candles blows out candles
    blows out—
    now I just think about who else
    is kissing her. I can’t breathe because
    he only kisses her once. He doesn’t care
    if it’s perfect. I want her back so bad,
    I leave the door unlocked.
    I leave the lights on.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    You will never be more wrong than the first time
    you say “I love you.” You will
    mean it, sure, but you’ll still be lying.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    How to Kill Yourself without Hurting Anyone
    Don’t.
  • Artiom Trashovhar citeretfor 7 år siden
    And when your fourth love leaves you,
    you will want to kill yourself but
    you won’t. You no longer think of suicide
    as a house you will build one day.
    Your fourth love, who is your first
    real love, who brought you peace
    when your whole body was a gun:
    when she leaves you, ask your roommate
    to hide the knives because you will carve
    her name into all of the food in your fridge.
    Stop showering. Warmth will remind you
    of her. Masturbate in public. Hope someone
    catches you. You need to feel vulnerable
    in front of anyone else. Try to burn her
    clothes. Try to fall in love with strangers.
    Try to fall asleep without her: open the windows:
    she would have wanted them closed;
    turn off the radio: she can’t sleep without
    noise—you can’t sleep without noise,
    but noise will sound like her whispering
    you into the world of lights and breakfast;
    make the rain sound like nothing, make
    the rain sound nothing like her voice.
    Don’t be alone. When you are alone,
    you won’t do anything you did with her,
    so you won’t do anything. Marvel at how she,
    the patient gardener, the bringer of sleep,
    she who draws the bath and lights the candles,
    she who made you someone who could make
    himself into someone, she made you want
    to live more than anything else, and now
    she makes you want to leave the world
    because you have seen it. In her
    you have seen the color and shape
    of your perfect life and now the children,
    the house, the arguments about tablecloths,
    they are all fading like things left in sunlight,
    like any dream left too long in the light.
    For months—years—every time you see her
    you will want to kiss her. When you do,
    you will expect pain to come like the old dog
    you could never bring yourself to put down,
    but there will be none. You will remind yourself,
    she will remind you, you will remind each other,
    that this is for the best, that you are physically
    incapable of loving one another, and in those
    moments you will be lying, your heart screaming
    I CAN I CAN I CAN. But you’ll stay silent.
    Because of her. Because she asked for this.
    Because she filled something in you
    that’s still full, even though
    she’s gone.
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