Tot de Gro Dahle. Tot din volumul „Hvem som helst, hvor som helst”.
And then came summer
I like the way your sweat smells when you bend over me. It smells of rhubarb or apple. And I like your breath when you lean up against me. I like the taste of your mouth. I like the taste of your tongue. How it tastes like meat. And your lips, how they almost taste like toothpaste. And i like the smell of your hair when you lie next to me. It smells of tree and bark and slightly of grass. And I like your hands, your strange, smooth hands, your fingernails. And I like your neck and the hair on your neck and the small wrinkles on your neck that taste salty. And I like your toes, your bulky toes that taste like socks and shoes and feet and delicious skin.
You write a message to me in the evening. You write Kisses. You write good night and sleep well and that you miss me and that you keep me in your thoughts, you write. And then you write Kisses. And you write that you will always love me. And that you are so lucky to have me, you write. And I laugh, even though you are not there, but I laugh anyway and write back the same thing and write Kisses from me, that’s what I write. And that I will always love you.
Because I like how you bend your head when you read the newspaper. And I like how you always choose precisely a fork and not another. And I like how you always cook meat so that it is dry and scorched. And I like that you always find both of your socks. And I like it when you stay overnight and have to borrow one of my t-shirts to sleep in. And that you bring your toothbrush and put it all over the place and when it’s time to lie down, you have to go through all the rooms in search of it, because that’s how you are. And when the summer comes, we go on walks together, go to the forest together, eat ice cream together, lie in the grass together, go to bathe together, sit on the bridge together and throw stones in the water.
And you write a message to me. I know it is you, for no one writes messages so late in the night. And I have actually fallen asleep, but it doesn’t matter, because I know it is you. You write two lines. You write that you miss so many things. You write that you want to be with other boys. And you don’t write Kisses. You don’t write that you love me. You don’t write anything else. I don’t know what to answer. And I write Ok. Ok, I write. But it is not ok. Great, I write. But it is not great. I write that I think about you. That I miss you. That I will always love you. Always. And I don’t cry. No, I don’t cry, but my room implodes. And every small particle and every little atom dissolves. The rattle of particles that buzzes and buzzes and buzzes around.
You don’t write anymore. A week goes by. I’m not good. I’m not good enough. You don’t like me. No one likes me. No one. Two weeks. Three weeks. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. Grief is crawling through my chest. Through my stomach. Through my back, through my head, over my forehead. Three weeks. Five weeks. A truck. When I look in the mirror, I see the tracks in deep furrows over my forehead. Deep, dark wheel tracks, almost like caverns where the wheels had jammed. I check the cell phone all the time. Checking, charging, checking, charging. You don’t write anything. Five weeks go by. Nothing. Six weeks. I write a message. I think about you, I write. You write back that you think about me too, but there is nothing more that you say. And seven weeks go by. Eight weeks go by. My mom says it will pass. All heartbreaks pass. Everyone knows it. Everyone. But not me. My father says that there are other fish in the sea. That you were nothing worth keeping. That there are many others greater than you. That we didn’t match. That there was nothing to build on. I read about heartbreaks. They all say heartbreaks pass. But nothing is ever over. Heavy traffic through me at nights. Car after car through my chest. I don’t sleep, simply follow every thought to its own deep caverns. I’m just garbage. I’m just old junk. Let the garbage truck take me.
And you write a message to me. You write that you hope I’ll find another, to whom I can get along with. You write that you hope I’m well, that you feel bad. I write back that you are not bad. That I am well. I throw the cell phone into the sea. It is against the wind and it is badly cast. But it sinks, and I cannot see it from the bridge. And when I jump into the water, I cannot find it. It is too deep down. I dive eight times, get a headache and give up. I regret that I did not crush it over a rock instead. Crush it, chop it up, bend the memory card, break it, crush it, hit it with a stone. Now it lies there in the cape and is still in one piece. Useless, but not completely. Exactly like me.
The sky did not fall down today either. I stayed up with an effort, shuffled with the stomach, the heavy grey sky full of retained water. The sea is centuries of sorrow. The rivers cry and cry and can’t stop. I sit on the bridge with the head in my hands. Thoughts gnaw in my head, bite holes, dig channels, pushing further and further into the dark, caving me up. It will take two years to get over you, maybe three, maybe five. It’s a criminal offense to love someone, and I must serve a long time for this crime. An open prison with no right to appeal. And I sit on the bridge and spit in the water. Sit and throw shells and stones and spit and spit until my mouth goes dry. I think about your warm hands. Your thumbs. And I like the way your sweat smells when you bend over me. It smells of rhubarb or apple. And I like your breath when you lean up against me. I like the taste of your mouth. I like the taste of your tongue. How it tastes like meat. And your lips, how they almost taste like toothpaste. And i like the smell of your hair when you lie next to me. It smells of tree and bark and slightly of grass. And I like your hands, your strange, smooth hands, your fingernails. And I like your neck and the hair on your neck and the small wrinkles on your neck that taste salty. And I like your toes, your bulky toes that taste like socks and shoes and feet and delicious skin.