Loving him is like driving a new Maserati down a dead end street Faster than the wind, passionate as sin, ending so suddenly Loving him is like trying to change your mind Once you’re already flying through the free fall Like the colors in autumn, so bright, just before they lose it all
Losing him was blue, like I’d never known Missing him was dark gray, all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know Somebody you never met But loving him was red Loving him was red
Touching him was like realizing all you ever wanted Was right there in front of you Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words To your old favorite song Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword And realizing there’s no right answer Regretting him was like wishing you never found out That love could be that strong
Losing him was blue, like I’d never known Missing him was dark gray, all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know Somebody you never met But loving him was red Oh, red Burning red
Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes Tell myself it’s time now gotta let go But moving on from him is impossible When I still see it all in my head In burning red Burning, it was red
Oh, losing him was blue, like I’d never known Missing him was dark gray, all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know Somebody you never met ‘Cause loving him was red Yeah, yeah, red Burning red
And that’s why he’s spinning ’round in my head Comes back to me, burning red Yeah, yeah His love was like driving a new Maserati down a dead end street
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Dive bar on the East Side, where you at? Phone lights up my nightstand in the black Come here, you can meet me in the back Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you Oh damn, never seen that color blue Just think of the fun things we could do
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me (Yeah, I want you) We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Third floor on the West Side, me and you Handsome, you’re a mansion with a view Do the girls back home touch you like I do? Long night with your hands up in my hair Echoes of your footsteps on the stairs Stay here, honey, I don’t wanna share
This ain’t for the best My reputation’s never been worse, so You must like me for me (Yeah, I want you) We can’t make Any promises now, can we, babe? But you can make me a drink
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Sometimes I wonder, when you sleep Are you ever dreaming of me? Sometimes when I look into your eyes I pretend you’re mine all the damn time
Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you’re in my head? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate) (Yeah, I want you) Is it cool that I said all that? Is it too soon to do this yet? ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (delicate)
Is it cool that I said all that? (Isn’t it?) Is it chill that you’re in my head? (Isn’t it, isn’t it?) ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate (isn’t it delicate?) (Yeah, I want you) Is it cool that I said all that? (Isn’t it?) Is it too soon to do this yet? (Isn’t it, isn’t it?) ‘Cause I know that it’s delicate
Although I do have many favorite quotes from Zora Neale Hurston, I’m going to try to follow the rules for this prompt. I know, you’re probably thinking, “Why start now?” It’s because I have a favorite quote that I really don’t think of that often but for this prompt, I thought of it.
Years ago, I bought this book:
Filled with requited and unrequited varieties
I don’t recall why I purchased the book, but if I had to venture a guess, it would be because the book is pink, has a heart on it (your girl is obsessed with hearts and collects them – not anatomical hearts, dear reader), and it also has a pink bookmark built right in.
The book contains different chapters, which delve into the many different types of love – requited, unrequited, grief, love for pets, etc. I’m not much of a romantic, but I am sentimental. So I tend towards more eccentric quotes about not just love, but everything.
I nudged this book off my shelf for this prompt and opened it up to the page with the pink bookmark. I never take this bookmark out of this page because this is my favorite quote in the whole book, and that’s not an easy feat to accomplish.
Without further adieu, Let me introduce you to my favorite quote:
When I read this the first time, I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. Then I realized there were many ways to interpret it. In fact, I have a new interpretation as I write this.
What is a superstition? (We all know, because we all remember the daily prompt from not that long ago.) Examples of superstitions include walking under a ladder is considered bad luck, opening an umbrella in the house is bad luck, breaking a mirror will give you seven years of bad luck, black cats are bad luck, knocking on wood so whatever you’ve just said comes true or stays safe (depends on the situation), and many more. Superstitions are misunderstood, mysterious, used as protection. In my mind, I always think about superstitions as hovering in the air in a cloud. Superstitions are not part of reality, but they are still given deference and respect. They are very real to the person who believes.
Having said that, I believe Monsieur Baudelaire is speaking here of unrequited love, a love that to him is so precious, he keeps it in the clouds just out of reach. The image of his love stays in his mind, and in his heart is where the cherishing blooms, but his love is so much more than that. He seems to be under a spell. To say you are more than an image I dream about and cherish, you are my superstition, means to me, that you are the very thing that I believe in, the idea of which makes no sense, but I love you more than I could ever love anyone else. And yet, there is a mystery about you. Are you bad for me? If my love were requited, would it be a mistake? Would it ruin everything? Superstition has to stay in the clouds, just out of reach, and so does the love. Dream of it, cherish it, hold it in the highest regard. Be also aware of its mystery and respect the unknowingness of it.
Monsieur Baudelaire was a controversial poet in Paris in the 19th century. He was part of the Decadent era. Knowing a bit about poets myself, I’ve been thinking: is the superstition the muse? Oui.
(Edit 4/20/24: I accidentally moved this to drafts and had to move it back to published. It’s not a new piece. If it’s new to you, that’s great. Thanks for reading.)
“Went what, Ethan?” she asked. I looked up with a crooked smile. “Are you writing out loud again?” She was standing there glowing, the sun all around her head, her expression open and teasing. She was the solar eclipse, she always has been, since September 27, 2033.
