PART TWO: THIS MESS WE CALL LOVE.

I can´t belive your not here with me anymore.
I can´t belive I am not where you are.
I can´t belive that you are somewhere else today,
and yesterday and probably tomorrow.

12. I´m going back to the start.
It was when she still got starstruck by his upperlip and he still got chills from her words.
When she met him, she tried to behave.

And when she talked to him he sounded like her, like the old her, the real her.
The one that collected postcards and held an lifetime of angst in an eraser from high school.
She would walk to his part of the city and they would sit by a big metal bridge and she would mess with his mind. He told her that he used to dream about the things she told him, the things she said to mess with his mind. And she would smile and consider herself a part of his world.
And so the summer came and they would spend hours listening to the same music on different places. You see, he was away a few weeks visiting his brother and left her temporarly, along with his black leather jacket and his shins-cds. She would put that jacket on and walk around his part of town for hours. Since she had nothing better to do during those weeks, he got more and more inside her head.

She did not know if it was love or simply boredom.
They do belive it was a little bit of both.

And he would come back after an eternity of shins-songs and they would stand for hours on the trainstation just looking at each other and update their memories of what the other person looked like.
He had gotten freckles and her hair was not as dark anymore. They would sit there and she would touch his freckles and he would run his hands thru her hair.

And his hands would get stuck in her hair, as no one had runned their hands thru it in such a long time. And then they would laugh and he would kiss her on the cheek over and over again, until she got freckles and his hair turned lighter. And she returned his leather jacket and he would say that it smelled just like her.

Her favourite thing was that when we took the train they would always sit facing each other, and, noone would notice that their knees where touching. And they would secretly look into each others eyes, look away, and start to talk with someone else. And they would both get all sorts of butterflies in their stomachs, just from having their knees pressed against the others.
They would meet up at their friends houses and look at bad movies for hours and hours in the night. He would sit at the very back, in the corner of the couch. She would act like nothing was happening as she gently moved closer and closer to him, util she almost had her head in his lap. In the corner of the couch in the unsuspecting darkness their hands were braided together for hours. They could be silent for such a long time, not having to say a word, and at one moment, they would get sick of the silence at exactly the same time and talk all over each other.


Fighting with him was the most fun she´d ever had. They would go into a room and start to talk until the room was filled with their words. And he would say something, and she would say something against it. And he called her crazy and she called him crazy and he called her a copycat for saying that he was crazy aswell. And he would call her unreasonable and
she would smile and laugh and then push all the awful and meningless words out of the room and kiss his freckles until they turned pink from her lipstick.
She loved fighting with him. She could argue with him about anything and everything.


They would sit in the library reading the same kind of litterature, but still having their ipods on, listening to heavy-metal as they trained themselves to look fully concentrated on the Dostojevski litterature they were reading.
She would make him mixtapes and he would write down every sentence in the songs that he thougth of her.
He would call her in the middle of the night and tell her how much he missed her and her music and her words and her freckles when he was away.
When his brother got worse, the phonecalls were less and less continuing. She had not given up on him but she would catch herself wondering more and more about love during the days. Sitting in his leatherjacket on the park surrounded by sympathetic ducks, listening to the garden state-soundtrack and wondering if this was it.
Was this it?
Was this all she got, and if it was, what was she complaining about? She had everything anyone could wish for, and stew. That horrible stew.