Well, this is just some writing I threw together late last night. Jude reminisces about her past with Tommy while expressing some thoughts about his new bride.
I wanna go back to that night where you told me that one song reminded you of us. I want to remember the color of your walls again and the feel of your sheets. You always ask me how I'm doing, and I tell you--and then you bring it back to yourself. You always do that. Someday, I think I'll deserve you and that's what I'm working towards. That's the point I'm dying to get to. I don't wanna make it work, if it doesn't wanna work. I made my favorite music out to be anything that reminded me of you, so now, my tastes have to change. I keep waiting around in the places where you used to be because I get curious and I drive myself into those bad nights. I've turned into the fruit you must spit out, and the rhetoric you must force down. A lump of dry air, and a splinter. My mouth, loose and desperate, always says whatever it shouldn't. Have you ever been thrown such a flummox by everything in your whole life? With each step and sway, the ideal changes. Yes. But, should I loosen my grasp or hold onto that faith which refuses to flee from me? Since the month that I knew you, I've been the exact same fifteen year old with the sun in my eyes. And I'm unsure and misled, and wrong. I know I've sustained such a misfigured hell in my mind. I have lost my voice m'dear. I'll look you up and look at your picture when I'm feeling less like this. I'll find my voice again after I delete all of the feelings and every counterfeit touch.
My love is something I feel in my stomach. It's an ache that I get when I hear stories laced with a name. It's a rush in my gut when I gotta look it in the eye. It's a shameful swallow when I've held on to a hug for too long. It's an elated kind of explosion just to know you're near me. It's a blow to my belly. It turns and turns and turns, my stomach does. I don't look around to check if you're watching anymore. I know you aren't, I'm glad you aren't. I don't get choked up and curse about it anymore. I find it easy to block out completely. I've always felt the urge to apoligize. To hug you and repeat it. I'm sorry for whatever I've done. I'm finding it hard to talk, to let the words come out of my mouth. That's why my face looks so sad, when I walk by you a dozen times, with shoulders slumped, trying to avoid your eyes 'cause they burn at what I can't do. In the end I am left looking foolish. Like I'm supposed to be. I am the weight of the world. You make me so angry, it hurts my throat.
It's not your remarks, but your gestures. It's not my heart, but my hands that screw me up. My heart and my lungs and all my other organs--they fight and scream and snarl at one another. They kick and scratch every once in a while. I wish the skies were blue for your day. Instead, they are gray and they sweat. They're too heavy. You shouldn't worry for a second though. If their weight causes them to fall I won't let those ugly skies crash your party. I'd hold them up for you. I'm trying to shake it off. I'm taking notes on being a sophisticate. I wrote in sloppy writing in my journal on the floor. I was half awake. I can barely make it out, but there's some Bob Dylan lyrics and a few words about how you make me feel so high and light.
She talks about you, in a way that I can't. She laughs it off. If I can help it at all, my eyes are closed and biting my lip is the best way I know how to keep from screaming about it. I just wish I could compose myself like you do. I can't write about my physical pains, 'cause my heart gets jealous. My vain heart. I'm not allowed to feel like this. Because I said I was fine with it. What I'd give for the right to hold you, and what I would do to get rid of you.