Water Boxes

“I liked you before I met you,” you said with a joint between us, slow deception between your lips. My ass of a roommate had showed you my books, my Sharpied windows, my one suitcase, and you liked me before you met me. “I’ve never met anyone like you” is a line I hear all the time, not because it’s true, but because no one really meets anyone. But I believed it from out-of-breath you. Whenever you recount truths, you talk like you’re running after your lungs. You almost choked when you told me you loved me, with a joint between us. “She’s not you, she’s not you.” There was always a joint between us, and other women between my nails. I laughed, with all the gasps you gave me. People had told you too many things about me, showed you too many things about me, and you loved too many empty things about me: my countries, my iTunes, my aquarium films. You didn’t love me, or like me before you met me, or exhale past the smoke and mirrors between us. You liked joints before you met joints, but you don’t know how to inhale.

(This American boy is currently in one of those ivies, and he is engaged.)

(Source: tinyaquarium)

You were perfect, with your perfect desires and your perfect decisions. When we met, it was perfect. All the days and dates after the first were perfect. Even our break-up was perfect. You joked that even the clouds did not dare ruin our break-up day. I laughed at your last joke. In your mind, I was perfect. “You’re staring,” I’d said. “I’m just smiling,” you’d said. In your mind, I was perfect for your timetabled, temp-controlled, manicured-lawn life. I liked you because you stared and just smiled. I’d felt your lashes on my skin, and your teeth on my fingers, on perfectly cloudless days. When you stared and just smiled, you were perfect. But we weren’t perfection. The one cloud, your closing joke, was that I didn’t stare and just smile back.

(This Swiss boy is currently doing his perfect Swiss banking in Switzerland.)

(Source: tinyaquarium)

People didn’t understand us. People were jealous. You, with your non-specific gender fluidity wrapped in a leather jacket. Me, with my cheap attitude and anti-bullshit accent. You, with your disapproval of cigarettes. Me, with my drug pushing and your approval of that. When the volcano almost erupted, we dragged ourselves out and watched the ashes make a mess. You told me your secrets, and I told you lazy lies. Maybe we should’ve married. Maybe the volcano should have erupted, while we were eating rum and raisin ice cream. “I can be your first husband.” My visa was up and you could have been my first husband, rum and raisins and all. My visa was up and so many people were jealous, leather jacket and all. “No, asshole.” In my head, you were my second husband, and I was your first wife.

(This Colombian boy is currently in Istanbul, doing his pansexual thing.)

(Source: tinyaquarium)

You only spoke Portuguese; and I, English. Spanish could have been, but we were both new, you knew. We knew nothing of each other. We needed reluctant translators, appreciative nods, and hands. Your hands pointed and pushed, and pulled me before crossing the street, and pulled me all the way to the Amazon. Your hands cooked me breakfast while we listened to English music, every morning we lived together. Your hands drank every cup of dinner I made you, while we listened to Brazilian music, every night we lived together. You knew nothing of me except my eyes, like agua, you said. Agua is the same in Spanish and Portuguese, except for the first syllable. We still knew nothing of each other. Agua, ahgua, awe-gua. I knew nothing of you except your hands, which I left wet with agua in the rainforest.

(This Brazilian boy is currently studying plants in Peru.)

(Source: tinyaquarium)

My most popular series in New York is showing in Lima. “The Ex Boyfriend Series: South America” happened because I didn’t finish my “100 faces (that kissed me)” project. Funny thing, only two of the boys in the series are South American. I think I like dating boys who don’t belong in the country I’m exploring.

I was told to do an ex boyfriend series for every part of the world I walked on. Wow. Dangerous ground.

I just had the best week and I think I’m going to cry. Sometimes, it really isn’t about where you are, it’s who you’re with. I like knowing that this happiness will go away and I will never get it back. I like that never seeing someone again can be the greatest thing.

I really like this place. Everything is so easy and uncomplicated. The weather is lazy, and the breaks are really long. Siesta is perfect. I get to actually cook and eat while looking at the mountains, and listening to the damn water and birds. I like that, when there’s a huge football game, everything is closed; work and classes are called off.

I hate coffee; but, here, I take 5 cups a day easy. Black. These people are so lucky they have really great coffee. And the fruits… Mangoes here taste a lot like the mangoes back home. I carry around a bottle of chili powder because, goddamn, Colombian food is not spicy or salty. I’ve been hanging out with a lot of my Bahraini friends. They’re cool. We make spicy dishes when the Colombians are sleeping.

I’ve been here about a week. I don’t want to leave. I’ve never been so stress-free.