Is there a word for when you are thinking about something at an inappropriate time? Thinking about something that makes no difference to you right now, something that could’ve made such a great difference to where you are right now? Is there a word for someone who burned you, but you’re thankful because it gave you the strength to become everything you’ve ever wanted? Is there a word for someone who burned you but you wanted to thank them in person just so you could see them one more time, smell their perfume one more time, lace your fingers in the back of their hair one more time, taste their bottom lip one more time, feel the way their skin on their shoulder fits so gracefully in between the lines of your teeth one more time, a whole repertoire of one more times that you wanted to do with them. He had these one more time wishes because when things were good they were great, but when they were bad, the entire world flooded, and he thought he was Noah, thought you were the world, blind and stupid and sinful, but he was water, and you were a child, not really a child but too young and stupid to know what he was doing was wrong.

He readjusted his fingers on the wall, they had grown sweaty from nerves, from fear, from him. He then began taping again, playing the piano piece on the wall, trying not to think about the other boy. He couldn’t believe he was thinking about him again, he swore he would never think about him again, he swore he’d lock him in a box in a forbidden corner of his mind, admit to himself that he once had enough love in his heart for that boy to burn down the entire world, but make sure to preface the word Once. Once. Once. Once. Once. Once.

“Once.”

He whispered under his breath, trying to block out his image one more time, reminding himself that was the number of chances he’d get to be successful. But then he smelled it, he always smelled it when he thought about him, and he hated that he was smelling it right now, this was his moment, he had worked his entire life to be there, he was going to burn down the whole world for himself, conquer the ashes in his name, build a city of dust and give himself the key because he had finally decided he was worth it. But he smelled that smell, and nothing could change that.

It was a January morning, that’s what he was smelling. That January morning he smelt, the wind was hollow and bitter, something about January always seemed so bitter, like a reminder time was moving and one more year had gone by that you hadn’t succeeded, hadn’t accomplished your dreams, one more year of disappointment and failure. He was standing at a bus stop, the same bus stop he always stood at to take to college, when he saw him. He was beautiful, he was the warmest color on that blue January morning, he radiated, he was like a human glow stick, and it was exciting. His entire life he had never seen a boy glow like that, he had never seen anyone glow like that. He had to say something, anything, even if he wasn’t interested he had to try, trying couldn’t hurt right? So he did, he pointed out that he had never seen him at that bus stop before, and the boy said this was his first time there and when he said it, he could’ve sworn that he watched the boy’s words fall from his mouth like a waterfall of light, before evaporating with his breath. They talked till the bus came, they talked on the bus, hell they rode every stop three times just so that they didn’t have to stop talking, he didn’t care he missed class, he could spend a million years looking at that boys mouth, and the way a fire lived inside of it, the way peaches grew at the back of his throat, the way he wanted to try and reach in and pick one out so bad.

His hand jerked roughly, he had messed up the piece again, hit the wrong key.

“Once.”

He repeated again. This was his moment, his only moment, this was his world, he had built this for himself, it was time for the world to finally hear him. This was going to be it, this was going to be the performance that finally catapulted him forward, finally started to turn him into the star he knew he was. Well, the star he always told himself he was, and the star that people always told him he was.

He had this sudden moment of doubt, feeling his insides suddenly shake, suddenly start to snap.

Quickly, he pushed himself out of it. This was going to be the moment that made all of those awful music rehearsals with his Dad worth it.

His Dad.

There was someone he didn’t want to think about, but sadly, he had to, because how could he not? He was going to become a star, and his dad wasn’t even going to get to see him take the first step. It had been three months since he died, a car crash, and it still felt oddly surreal for him. The two of them were close, so close, he was the one who made him play classical music, the one who piqued his interest in being a musician. The person who starts you on the path of your passion will always hold a special place in your heart, so when the place is forced vacant, it hurts even more, it’s like they had taken your one safe haven because now everything felt like him. Notes sounded like his laugh, pieces sounded of his corrections, hell entire symphonies were written for the way he ran his finger through his beard while his son played, as if trying to hear every emotion, in every key stroke.

His dad told him, music has a terrible poker face, it will always give away what you’re feeling no matter what part of yourself you’re trying to hide it in, it will find it, it will drag it out, it will put it on display, and everyone will love it. He also always said the true way to know everything about someone is to hear them play their favorite piece, because that will reveal everything you needed to know about them, it will tell every story. Is that why his dad always had him play whatever his son wanted? Let him pick the pieces to learn, let him tell his own narrative, did his dad know he was gay before he did? Is that why he stopped giving him piano lessons, because the piano has a terrible poker face, and gave away the truth every time? Could his dad not handle the truth?

He had messed up a different part, his hands were shaking, holy crap, they were shaking, why were they shaking he knew this like the back of his hand? He repeated in his brain what the piece sounded like, hearing every note. The first time he heard something that was a not a note, it was so quiet, he wasn’t even sure if he had actually heard it. But then he heard it again, and again, and soon every note in the piece was replaced with the sound of that boy’s car door, the boy from the bus stop, the boy that radiated?

It was March, a year after they had met at a bus stop, he had dropped out of college to go travelling with this boy. He had fallen in love with him under so many different stars, in so many different places, with so many differences, and so many uncertainties, looking back at those months, he had fallen in love with a tangent. Sadly nothing in those months were real, at least the feelings weren’t, they weren’t really real. Would he still love him in a small New York apartment, while trying to become a classical musician? Would he love him in a New Jersey Cape Cod on a sunday morning while watching cartoons and staying in bed till 3?

He didn’t know.

However, he did love him in the back of his car, that’s the noise he heard, the sound of his car door being closed the first time that the boy told him he loved him, and the first time he believed him, the first time he believed he made someone fall in love with him. You’ll always believe that.

But what they had wasn’t love, it was this strange combination of lust and love, this strange unhealthy amalgamation of the desire for the flesh of a certain person but just the flesh, or just the person, never at the same time, is there a word for that? Is there a word for how mean this boy was he got drunk? Is there a word for all the words he called him, in Kansas, in Oregon, in Michigan, in his car, in a restaurant, in a hotel, in that same hotel he pushed him, in the same hotel he watched this boy that lit up his whole world, begin to burn it.

The sun is perpetually alone, it lights up the world of so many, it possesses so much beauty and curiosity, but should you get to close it will burn you, it’ll char you, it’ll turn you into ash. Look at Mercury, look Icarus, all people who have fallen in love with the sun, and they were all burned, left dead or uninhabitable.

It was time.

He began to walk towards the stage, taking a deep breath with each step, it was time to finally show the universe he was here, he had blossomed.

As he walked, he saw his memories next to him, he saw his dad grow distant and cold, he saw that boy turned fire, he saw that bus stop, he saw his car, he saw Kansas, he saw that hotel, he saw everything. As he walked through the wax museum of everything that had beaten him down, he wanted to tip his hat, say farewell, but they were coming with him. The Piano has a terrible poker face, it’ll drag out every feeling inside of you, every thought at an inappropriate moment. Is there a word for that?

What about this, is there a word for this? This, this thing growing inside that boy, that desire to break out? This, this desire to stand among the stars and dance, is there a word for that? This… this thing inside of him, the beast, the star, the cage, the wind, that wind, that lived inside of him, his ears, his nose, his… his car. Is there a word for when all the windows in your car are closed but you can still feel the wind? Was that boy who glowed a windshield? Could the sun be a windshield? Is there a word for that? That person made everything taste like pink lemonade because it was favorite drink and he still knew that a year later? What was the word for the person that tinted the whole world in pink lemonade?

What about the boy, is there a word for him? A word for someone you will only love during harmonic convergence because somehow the planets aligned just right to let you guys happen for just a second, a millisecond even in the grand scheme of everything. Did the universe like pink lemonade, is that why they were allowed to happen for a small period of time in the grand scheme of things? What is the word for the grand of scheme things? The universe’s script? Destiny’s chess game?

What is the word for when you are standing at the precipice of greatness, and when you look down you see your wildest dreams coming true? What is the word for when you are afraid of falling, but so ready to jump? What is the word for when you are standing at the precipice of greatness, ready to jump, scared to fall, but all you can taste is pink lemonade?

Déjà vu.

An ode to being a Millennial, 

To the feeling generation,

To the generation that get offended too easily, 

To the generation, who don’t know how to take a joke

To the generation of narcissists, who love themselves so much that they couldn’t have anything besides a hookup culture

To the generation that killed romance, and writing

To the generation that killed everything just by being born.

To the generation that has been told by everyone around them who they are

You my dears, are stronger than anyone, and I am proud to consider myself among you

An ode to being a millennial

To the generation that is afraid of feeling

To the generation that just doesn’t think racism is funny

To the generation that will no longer excuse your bigotry as humor

To the generation who know the difference between confidence and narcissism

To the generation who has explored love, and learned that love is like humans, different but equal

To the generation that are happy to consider their birth the birth of social change

To the generation that is still enough inside themselves to be comfortable with not knowing who they are.

You, my dears, should wear the word millennial like a badge of honor, of pride.

An ode to being a millennial

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t shine with the most pristine luster,

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t have the most perfect shine,

An ode for this generation, because it is different

An ode for this generation, because society up to this point has hated everything different

An ode for this generation, because our name falls out of people mouth’s like a barrel over Niagara

An ode for this generation, because no one ever writes one,

An ode for this generation, because we are growing up like no one ever has before, on the cusp of cell phone lights and street lights.

An ode for this generation, because we are the first generation in a long time who are not only trying to figure out who we are, but what, we are.

An ode to being a Millennial,

To the feeling generation, 

To the generation who get offended too easily,

To the generation, who don’t know how to take a joke

To the generation of narcissists, who love themselves so much that they couldn’t have anything besides a hookup culture

To the generation that killed romance, and writing

To the generation that killed everything just by being born.

To the generation that has been told by everyone around them who they are

You my dears, are stronger than anyone, and I am proud to consider myself among you

An ode to being a millennial

To the generation that is afraid of feeling

To the generation that just doesn’t think racism is funny

To the generation that will no longer excuse your bigotry as humor

To the generation who know the difference between confidence and narcissism

To the generation who has explored love, and learned that love is like humans, different but equal

To the generation that are happy to consider their birth the birth of social change

To the generation that is still enough inside themselves to be comfortable with not knowing who they are.

You, my dears, should wear the word millennial like a badge of honor, of pride.

An ode to being a millennial

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t shine with the most pristine luster,

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t have the most perfect shine,

An ode for this generation, because it is different

An ode for this generation, because society up to this point has hated everything different

An ode for this generation, because our name falls out of people mouth’s like a barrel over Niagara

An ode for this generation, because no one ever writes one,

An ode for this generation, because we are growing up like no one ever has before, on the cusp of cell phone lights and street lights.

An ode for this generation, because we are the first generation in a long time who are not only trying to figure out who we are, but what, we are.

An ode to being a Millennial,

To the feeling generation, 

To the generation who get offended too easily,

To the generation, who don’t know how to take a joke

To the generation of narcissists, who love themselves so much that they couldn’t have anything besides a hookup culture

To the generation that killed romance, and writing

To the generation that killed everything just by being born.

To the generation that has been told by everyone around them who they are

You my dears, are stronger than anyone, and I am proud to consider myself among you

An ode to being a millennial

To the generation that is afraid of feeling

To the generation that just doesn’t think racism is funny

To the generation that will no longer excuse your bigotry as humor

To the generation who know the difference between confidence and narcissism

To the generation who has explored love, and learned that love is like humans, different but equal

To the generation that are happy to consider their birth the birth of social change

To the generation that is still enough inside themselves to be comfortable with not knowing who they are.

You, my dears, should wear the word millennial like a badge of honor, of pride.

An ode to being a millennial

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t shine with the most pristine luster,

An ode for this generation, because while it doesn’t have the most perfect shine,

An ode for this generation, because it is different

An ode for this generation, because society up to this point has hated everything different

An ode for this generation, because our name falls out of people mouth’s like a barrel over Niagara

An ode for this generation, because no one ever writes one,

An ode for this generation, because we are growing up like no one ever has before, on the cusp of cell phone lights and street lights.

An ode for this generation, because we are the first generation in a long time who are not only trying to figure out who we are, but what, we are.

He ran his hand across my cheek, he was the only thing I could see. This was both a metaphor and an actuality. A metaphor because no matter where we went I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And an actuality because when he laid on top of me he blocked out my view of everything behind him.

He had these deep cerulean blue eyes that looked as if they were the setting for 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea. His eyes had this gravitational pull that dragged you in and drowned you in them. I’m not entirely sure whether they were like a soft mid-summer day’s rain or a thick brewing summer typhoon. They were soft in the sense that, if you saw them when he thought no one was looking, they had this kind look to them, this sort of cooling warmth. However, when he thought people were looking they brought in storm clouds, lightning crackled throughout his iris’,thunder followed it, bashing and booming. However, if you looked hard enough and stared through the din, you saw it, the eye of the storm, the calmest part. Much like his his eyes, his facial features were strong and pointed and jutted out of his face like river rapids. His nose was long and sloping and defined the profile of the rest of his face. His chin was like a greek Acropolis, defined when looked at as a whole but up close soft and gradual. His collar bones were thin but defined and shot out of his shoulders like someone had displaced the rockies, and made his torso their new home. He painted a beautiful landscape in front of me, a entire world was flourishing and growing right before my eyes.

Leaning down, he began to kiss me, melting the two of us together into a single harmony. He merged his world into mine creating a single unity between the two of us. I felt our hearts beginning to beat as one, playing the tune to a song that only the two of us knew. The song was slow, sultry jazz music. If you were to hear it, it would take you through time and place you in a nightclub in the 20s. A live singer would jostle about the stage in a long red dress. Her voice would be smooth and rich and would fill everyone of your senses with the time period, at least the romanticized aspects of it. You would taste it, hear it, smell it, it would consume your entire being until you wouldn’t be unable to escape. That’s what I’ve noticed about him, it’s not his eyes that has a gravitational pull but him himself, everything about him was mesmerizing.

As we grew together I felt chills rise out of my back like mountains, fires lit beneath my tongue, volcanoes began to rise in my stomach as vines wrapped around my ribs and lungs tightening my entire chest. Violets bloomed beneath my eyes and underneath my fingernails. In between my teeth, stars exploded and then from the stardust thousands more formed where the old ones once were. As we became one, he was turning me into a world of my own, painting me with the colors found inside of him. He had turned me into my own little corner of his galaxy.

All I could feel, was satin. Soft, red, satin. I remember it was the first thing I noticed when I walked into the room. He told me he had bought the sheets special for this occasion and I remember how special I felt. On the bed rose petals were scattered about, I hardly noticed them on the red satin and probably wouldn’t have if he didn’t tell me. Maybe this is all too idealistic sounding and maybe it’s supposed to be. Clichés are painful, love is messy, the world doesn’t have defined lines.

My heart was racing, the world was spinning, my vision was blurry. The world around me had never looked so beautiful before. He was a mixture of Satin, of rose petals, of… me. The entire world seemed to beat with my heart. We had both grown into one world together and now we began to turn the real world into our own. We painted the walls red, and blue and green and yellow and every other shade and hue of color we could find within ourselves, within our beating, living hearts. We were two boys with sad eyes that had enough color inside ourselves to turn the four small white walls into an entire galaxy. Nebulas swirled around us, shooting stars whizzed in between us, asteroids floated through the room. We had both became stars in the same constellation in that moment and no force in the universe could pull us apart.

Eventually, he rolled over and laid next to me in the bed. He interlocked his fingers with mine and we just looked at the room before us. We admired the beautiful world we had just created together, two mortal beings taking on an immortal task. We sat in silence in this universe. It was so pretty that we did not want to speak, fearing that our voices would cause it to bend and break and snap and ultimately disappear.

Then suddenly, he spoke.

“I think I love you…”

My heart stopped. My fear was right, the sound of his voice did cause the entire universe to bend, break and snap. Everything around me started to crumble before my very eyes. We had built our kingdom and now I destroyed it in fear. What was I afraid of? Was I afraid of my feelings? Afraid of being hurt? I wasn’t sure then and frankly I’m not sure now, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be.

I felt the mountains of my spine turn in landslides and mud. My tongue began burn as volcanoes went off in my stomach burning the vines wrapping around my ribs. My lungs filled with smoke and tightened, my heart practically stopping. The violets began turn brown the petals falling off one by one, both of us dying in that moment. The stars between my teeth collapsed in on themselves and began to suck my entire body into them, turning myself into a black hole, sucking everything and everyone around me into darkness.

All I could feel, was satin. Soft, red, satin. All I could see was satin. All I could hear satin. Satin, satin, satin, it filled up all of my senses, drowned my pores in it, making it feel as if my skin was about to turn into it, the world around me was wrapped in Satin. I was wrapped in Satin. We were wrapped in red, soft, satin.

The twenties were over, the music had stopped. Cliches are painful, love is messy and the world doesn’t have defined lines and I’m not sure I do either.

“Oh…” he said, my silence being enough of an answer. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him, or enjoy his presence but… love him? Love is such a strong word, it’s a real word and that’s always been a big fear of mine, real. Love puts “fragile” stickers on relationships, and I have never been found of people thinking I’m fragile.

“L-L-listen… It’s just…” I started but he began getting out of bed.

“No… it’s fine really I just don’t think I should be here right now…” he said quickly getting dressed. My heart hurt. Bad. I wanted to stop him, I wanted to tell him I loved more than I love getting to wake up every morning, I wanted to say I’m sorry for having to think about it. Actually -no- it’s not that I wanted to say that, it’s that I wished I wanted to say that. But the truth is, I didn’t. I want to tell him I like him a lot but I don’t know if I’m ready for love. I’ve always been a little scared of that too. Sometimes I’ll forget that if I do get married one day, it will be to a boy, how could I forget I liked boys? People forget things from 10 years ago because it was ten years ago, but people forget things from today because they don’t want to remember.

But right now, that’s not the story I’m telling, we will touch on that topic in a different story at a different time with a different person.

Right now I’m telling the story of how I watched someone destroy his own world. Paint a picture and then burn it because he was afraid of being good at something. It’s okay to be good at something.

We haven’t spoke since that day. I wish I could tell you that we had and I wish I could tell you I realized I loved him more than the moon loves the stars. But the moon is just a rock and can’t love and what if I can’t either? Maybe this story is unfinished but I’m only a teenager, to tell finished stories would be to die young.