Senseless

Or is it the name and once you've thought about the name, is it her face? Jacey. Your heart doesn't say it like that. It goes: oh, wow, Jacey. And then, how does the relationship end. Is that senseless, too?

As I walk and I see her and I can't talk, she smiles at me.

I run when she's not looking at me but slow down near her class, our class.

What the hell is going on? It's part of the heart, I bet.

The room is full of people. Hey, Henry. How are you, Chasey? Oh, really, no, no thanks, really I don't eat pink donuts. And Teresa, how is Teresa? I really didn't want to know. Lourdes, your hair is on fire. How, ultimately, dull.

They disappear when she walks in (late).

I get a smile. Some fool by the door gets a "hello" but I get a smile. I don't know what follows. I want it again, is it greed? I stare in her direction. Forget about looking; the contemporary fool in love or in infatuation stares like he was in a contest with Salem. You're going to tell me that's part of love, too?

Along the hallways, we once met. She dropped her backpack. I stared in shock (as she picked it up). Her stuff got scattered everywhere. One of her hair thingies hit my shoes.

"What are you doing, help me," she said.

"Hey," I said, "How are you?"

"Er, hello, I just dropped my stuff. Roger! Damit you just stepped on my lipstick."

Her face just brings back memories and I lose reality too fast. She once put her head on my shoulder if I recall but she was sleepy. Perhaps, this is a natural reaction. If she had put her head on Teresa's shoulder, however, I would have taken a snapshot of it. Would that have been a more everlasting memory or, simply, a more perverted one?

Those were times of circumstance, however. Me and her happened to be in the same class on the same class trip at the same time sitting next to each other. How I wish it had been the same chair.

It has reminded me of my one line poem titled Unknown.

I have known this feeling before of whatchamacallit and who-knows-what but the heart beats so fast your breathing can barely catch up.

Well, haven't you? Ironically, that's not exactly how the mind works because the mind works on a timer and, once the timer goes ding, you have to get back to what you were doing before. This means going back to not being with Jacey. It means ignoring Jacey. It means time to shop at JC for someone whose name is not Jacey. It means doing a myriad of things that do not involve Jacey. It means that if you were obsessed with seeing Jacey at whatever period in time in which you were being obsessed, you'd have to STOP being obsessed and START making a freaking milkshake. Now, I ask you, what makes more sense?

The heart, however, only has one direction. At any given time when the "distractions" of the mind let up, it goes back to Jacey, Jacey, Jacey like a freaking bad commercial for inflatable balloons. So there she was and I was staring at her, as she picked up her stuff in scoops. Her small hands and short brown hair were distracting me more than her face. So, in a sense, it's never quite the face. "Sorry," I said and began to help, a minute late.

She said thanks and proceeded to walk away from me because we have, at this moment, different classes. Her thank you's are not like other girls thank you's. They're not like "Oh, thank you" now bugger- off. Her thank you's are soft and caressing and they linger for at least ten seconds. It's a sexy thank you.

They say both partners in a relationship should be different but have you heard of not being enough the same? I guess part of it is realizing that if you were the same, there'd be nothing to discover and it would dissolve any spark you believed existed between you and the other. Love so dissolves like burning acid on a tender stick of butter. It never stops leaving holes. I trust that's what other people say. Hey, I know. I heard the songs. Most of the ones that were loud and triumphantly painful to the ear, in any case. Believe it or not, they're more emotionally written (yet not emotionally performed as thousands of broken-strung guitars have proven).

Whenever we're around each other, an uncommon and unrealistic and uncomfortable sexual tension surrounds us. Some people say that's part of love because it's a feeling. No, it's many feelings that collapse against each other like stars in space which crash into each other and create large galaxies. However, this is something much more complex: love.

But, Shhh! Let's keep it momentarily quiet like malignant heart tumors which spring forth with some unknown pain at the worst possible moment. Simple.

I wonder what Jacey is doing. I often wonder, what can I do to stop wondering what Jacey is doing? If information gets passed from one end of a chord to the next, then maybe all I need is like a good cake or something. Sugar thickens the blood, I heard. Stupid love, it never leads to anything bad. I would be so psyched about it if it involved intensive research on cool new rock bands online and the love part involved listening to each and every song. Instead, the music stays the same and it returns to my heart when I see her. I suspect it's a sappy one. I mean, you don't need a member of your family to pop your eyes back in after hearing it. It's not even a song, if you believe that I hear music in her presence. It's like a music but without the bad parts, all you have is the feeling. People say it feels like butterflies. It feels like threading a flaming rope barefoot four feet above burning charcoals and there's a dreamy aspect about it like I'm being heroic. I never fall or at least, the feeling doesn't change to hysterical fits of "Oh, crap, my feet are on fire!"

None of it makes sense. We're creatures of reason or at least, when something happens without a reason like rhetoric similes, I question it. College is a curse in two ways: (1) It potentially introduced me to love (potentially in the sense that love is a questionable emotion that doesn't just happen out of the blue that one must question at every turn) (2) It taught me to question everything. However, I heard you don't need to question your heart; it's always right or it has the right idea, in any case. It's kind of like when you go to sleep. The bed has the right idea but the pillow knows what you really want.

Bad relationships are the result of not listening to your heart. I have some experience in this because I know a girl that's a real bitch. She hates me unconditionally and has done everything in her power to make my life miserable. In fact, she has told me she likes me in order to later say that I was into her to others, to humiliate me. She has no respect for me and expects me to do nice gestures for her. She's like one of those expensive rubber-made figurines. It's pretty to look at but I wouldn't suggest it to any of my friends or family. For good measure, I forgot her name.

In fact, I'm hoping Jacey attains one attribute that she had because if Jacey all of a sudden started hating me, I'd see a lot more of her, if only at a glance as she was throwing things at me.

When Jacey is not around time feels like a big void.

You can put things in that void like chocolates, milkshakes, the internet, new music and movies. The void eats them up and it remains a void.

But I can not do this to you. I wish I could. It would give me the greatest of pleasures to leave an innocent bystander like the kid whose ice-cream was served in a napkin and was left with half-melted rocky road ice cream all over their hands without the pleasure of having to taste it, like as in a tease.

Unfortunately for me, my wholesome dream of having all those around me hate me, has been doomed to failure from the start. It's my guess that this love thing has plans of its own.

I saw Jacey again. This is our last conversation and I leave you to peck whatever detailed sexual innuendos you would from it or whatever non-sexual things you would.

We were both at the library stairs, outside of it. I was sitting next to a construction site leaning against the fence that separated the students from it. She was sitting a foot away, looking at her feet.

"Hey," I said.

"I lost all of my writing," she said.

"What happened?"

"Some dummy stepped on my USB yesterday."

"You mean when you dropped your back pack?"

She nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence and something sensual about the way she pushed her hair back. It was like I couldn't stop looking at her and when I talk to someone I have an excuse to see them for at least the time it takes to realize they have pretty eyes. The kind of pretty eyes that one could rub other people's faces in, should they belong to me. It's less about possession, though and more about the feeling of the moment.

"Am I the dummy?" I asked.

She smiled a little. The anger was beginning to get there. Hey, a planet wasn't built in a day. Some say it took at least six. "Yeah," she said, quietly.

We stared at each other. Then, I said the coolest thing I could think of, "I didn't know that."

"You didn't? You kicked it after you had helped me. It twisted to one side!"

"Wait, wait," I said, smiling at her, "Don't get me involved in your Ooops-I-dropped-my-back-pack issues."

She giggled and pushed me. I pushed her.

Then, we were kissing. And if you ask me how one crosses the infinite amount of inches that it takes to get past one face and the other, I would have to say I do not know. It's almost like there's a resistant force field across the lips of girls or guys a person loves. It's broken by either belief or odd circumstance, so I noticed. But how it happened, who kissed who first, which lip admitted the other, what tongue broke the tooth and touched the other tongue, who did what with who's hands and where they went for about an hour past the hour are things which I know nothing about. Those, at least, I can keep from you with great pride and no regret, almost like it was true that the kiss has not even happened yet, almost like the library scene is a fool in love's fantasy-driven prediction.