You are not here so I can think now, and try to make sense of things. Did I like you? do I need you? I don’t know.
I know I like I tuna sashimi, it’s so pretty to eat. But to survive the trauma of being alive every day, I need large servings of Spanish rice, I need to bite into jalapenos. Sometimes all I really need is a drink or two or three: Riesling or Cuba Libre, with Captain Morgan or Sailor Jerry. Yeah you know what I like, and that I like it cool. These are the things I need and the things I like, and you’re not on that list.
I want you. This is as true as Pucci scarves put me in a sunny mood. As simple as booking a plane ticket, which is my favorite thing to do, ever. Plane tickets are about hope and making plans, a fresh start and feeling a little dizzy from the altitude. But being with you feels even better. With you I can just stay in bed all day and be goofy and not wear makeup, not even mascara or my best Nars lipstick, not even nail polish.
I love the honesty of Banksy’s art because honest is what I always strive to be. I love weird fucked up families in Wes Anderson movies, because I’m a little weird and fucked up too. You, I do not love (but I breathe better when you hold me). If I love anything about you, its is me through your eyes (and all my friends agree that I look prettier on pictures you take of me). No matter how hard I try, I cannot hide the fact that you make me incredibly happy (but maybe that is not something you need to know).
It’s not what you think. If I had to write a love letter, I would address it to La Duree Orange macaroons; maybe Raspberry macaroons too; but not to you. If I wanted to tell tales of lust, Louis Vuitton vintage streamer trunks would come to mind. I can spend hours just staring at those sinfully gorgeous steamer trunks in the Beirut Louis Vuitton boutique. I could sell a kidney, forget where I’m going, just to travel the world with those trunks. I only admire the sun and I only crave for chili-flavored chocolate. I do not crave for you.
But I am homesick for you. Now before you get all smug and proud, you should also know that you were not, and by far, the best lay I ever had. Seriously, we had no chemistry, even at our best, and I still think that’s very weird.
When things were really bad, when I thought I was going crazy because things were so very bad, you managed to make me laugh. I cannot thank you enough for being so funny and supportive during that disastrous week, when I thought I was going crazy. I know it made you feel awesome because you love to make a woman laugh. The neighbors could hear me laugh that week (and sometimes cry) and I did not care.
I was careful not to ask for more. You are a good friend and I resent you for it. How could I not? I should be forgetting your last name but I never will (bastard). I’m homesick for you, but I have more affection for rockstars who make me smile (Keef) and my favorite food ever, man’ouche (And the fact that you don’t like zaatar is weird) than I have affection for you.
By the way, I decided that next time I’m feeling sad or hormonal, I will not call you anymore. I will have a red bean mochi instead.
Yeah I’m oral, you already know that don’t you? I drink, I smoke, I bite my cuticles and I eat my feelings, what else is there to do with feelings? So I sit there, and I eat lovely La Duree Orange macaroon, chili-flavored chocolate, and I’m listening to the Rolling Stones. I can go get red bean mochi later, or have a zaatar saj man’ouche. I can get any food I want in this city and at this point, I’m seriously considering investing in a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk, but it is a sunny day and the only thing I really want is to go for cappuccinos with you.
This is not what you think. This is not a passionate love letter, not a desperate last attempt to seduce you, or get your heart to beat a least once for me. It is just a fact stated: I’m homesick for you.