the worst and most beautiful

is, to cook, it is hard enough to just do that. cut garlic for example. it kills me. but i do it anyways. i never cook anything that we ate though. maybe there will be a time later in the future that i can do that and actually rejoice that but right now it is too much. it is too much to walk into the bathroom and think about how gorgeous you look with your hair up when you are about to take a shower. how beautiful you looked with wet hair (you dreaded that and almost always managed to keep your fro dry...but that first time in the motel, it was so beautiful...you looked exactly like a prince to me my love) and all that.
it is good we changed the living room. too bad that with the new bed couch i nourished hopes for us to spend some nice quiet hours on that couch. but it s okay. i can deal with it. so i cook stuff for my pita (thats the new way of eating) and lay afterwards down, listening to Bob Marley: innocent, unloaded summer time music.
I didn't think about Buffalo Soldier though. the first chords and something jumps on my chest and presses all air out of it: how the fuck can somebody have so MANY tears? where do they all come from? do i have to drink extra much water now? what about the salt? do i have to eat more salt now?
as I am lying there i allow myself to drift away:
the worst and most beautiful: you were the one person in my (admittedly short) life, who I wanted to introduce to EVERYBODY I love. That's why I TOLD everybody about being in love with you. I wanted you to meet my parents, my siblings, i even wanted you to meet Christel, who died when I was twelve.
I don't know what happened over the course of time. did I give you as much as I should have? wanted?
where are the fucking should haves? It is because of a poem about 'should haves' that I took your hand this first night on Hollywood Blvd.
I shouldn't have talked to Steve again.
I should have created a home for you
I should have gotten an apartment for us
I should have bought a car so you could have worked and we could have led the life that we wanted to for the next year.
I should have not get angry at you when you come in a break to play my guitar. I should have just jumped up and sing for you (why didn't I dare to do that anyways?) and whisper in your ear how much I adored and loved you.
I should have never hurt you if I did, I am so incredibly sorry.

I want to cry in the morning, in the night, in class, everywhere. I am a sobby mess. It hurts real bad. I want so much more. Just a last time to the beach. maybe another year? another life?

Man. I wanted so bad that Christel hadn't died and could see you. I was so absolutely positive that she would love and adore you just as I do. I was sure she would see the prince in you. Oh my God.