Love Distance Love

Long Distance Love by Sarah Kay


I had already fallen in love with too many postage stamps, when you appeared on my doorstep wearing nothing but a post stamp promise.

No, appeared is the wrong word. Is there a word for sucker punching someone in the heart? Is there a word for when you're sitting at the bottom of the roller coaster and you re

I had already fallen in love with too many postage stamps, when you appeared on my doorstep wearing nothing but a post stamp promise.

No, appeared is the wrong word. Is there a word for sucker punching someone in the heart? Is there a word for when you're sitting at the bottom of the roller coaster and you realise the climb is coming, that you know what the climb means, that you can already feel the flip in your stomach from the fall, before you've even moved? Is there a word for that?

There should be. You can only fit so many words in a postcard. Only so many in a phone call. Only so many into space, before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness. It is hard to build a body out of words. I have tried. We have both tried.

Instead of holding your head to my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me, who stays up all night long practising his drum set. The neighbours have complained, they have busy days tomorrow, but he keeps on thumping through the night. Convinced, I think, that practice makes perfect.

Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about the sandwich you ate for lunch today. How the pickles fit so perfectly with the lettuce. Practice does not make perfect, practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall, even I know that. Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don't get any closer. You, never get any closer.

Is there a word for the moment you win tug of war, when the weight gives and all that extra rope comes hurdling toward you. How even though you've won, you still wind up with muddy knees and burns on your hands, is there a word for that? I wish there was. I would've said it when we were finally together on your couch, neither one of us with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space, hoping that some mail man somewhere will track you down and recognise you from the description in my poems. That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you, 'there's a girl who still writes you, she doesn't know how not to.'alise the climb is coming, that you know what the climb means, that you can already feel the flip in your stomach from the fall, before you've even moved? Is there a word for that?

There should be. You can only fit so many words in a postcard. Only so many in a phone call. Only so many into space, before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness. It is hard to build a body out of words. I have tried. We have both tried.

Instead of holding your head to my chest, I tell you about the boy who lives downstairs from me, who stays up all night long practising his drum set. The neighbours have complained, they have busy days tomorrow, but he keeps on thumping through the night. Convinced, I think, that practice makes perfect.

Instead of holding my hand, you tell me about the sandwich you ate for lunch today. How the pickles fit so perfectly with the lettuce. Practice does not make perfect, practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall, even I know that. Repeat the same mistakes over and over and you don't get any closer. You, never get any closer.

Is there a word for the moment you win tug of war, when the weight gives and all that extra rope comes hurdling toward you. How even though you've won, you still wind up with muddy knees and burns on your hands, is there a word for that? I wish there was. I would've said it when we were finally together on your couch, neither one of us with anything left to say.

Still now, I send letters into space, hoping that some mail man somewhere will track you down and recognise you from the description in my poems. That he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you, 'there's a girl who still writes you, she doesn't know how not to.'

天氣預報

我和爸爸要去法雅客喝咖啡
路過星巴客
玻璃走道看得到大海
海浪打在窗戶濺得很高
天氣有點陰

我們走在巷弄小路
有客家房子和廢棄房間
水藍色的很好看
我拍照

開始下雨
爸爸穿西裝說不要緊
拿袋子把鞋子套上

女孩說她要到台南
可是這班車到花蓮吶
我和爸爸說
外面出太陽了

Blue Valentine

Blue Valentine
2010


Dean還是很愛他的one girl，可是我可以諒解Cindy最後還是不和Dean一起了。"I am so out of love with you." Cindy這樣說著，哭著指著自己的心說"there's nothing here for you."

沒有了愛就走不下去的。

我想起前幾天朋友問我的問題，我說我想和我愛的人在一起，不是愛我的人在一起，一點猶豫也沒有。可是和愛自己比較多的人在一起不是比較幸福嗎，朋友說。可是沒有愛是走不下去的。然後我突然好像了解難怪我的情路這樣坎坷。

Cindy和Summer這樣狠心甩了愛她們的男人的女人是男人眼裡的bitch吧，可是我覺得我理解她們為什麼會這樣做。

所以我想我大概也會是別人眼中的bitch。




Dean still loves the one girl, but I understand why Cindy chose not to be with Dean anymore even if he tried hard to win her back. "I am so out of love with you," Cindy said; she cried and put her palm on the chest and said, "there's nothing here for you."

There's nothing. Nothing.

I thought of the question my friend asked me few days ago. "I would like to be with the person I love than with the person who loves me," I replied to her without hesitation. "Wouldn't it be easier and happier to be with the person that loves you more?" "But I have no love for him. No love." And then I seemed to understand why it's never easier and happier to me.

Those girls like Cindy and Summer must be taken as a bitch, for dumping their sweet lovely lovers, but I guess I understand why they did that.

So I think I am probably taken as a bloody bitch as well.

盡頭 at the end of

「教室走廊的盡頭有很美的城市風光和晚霞雲彩」
這個場景我夢見了兩次



"at the end of the school hallway, you can see beautiful city views and sunset sky."
i had it twice in my dream scenario.