Lost, Gentle Romeo

I made it on time to City Ballet building, leaving early from the double farewell drink half of which was for me, from Under the Volcano at Mid-town.

After three gin and tonics, I wish I won't fall into Sleep at the performance with the music that has always haunted me.

I did not. I was upbeat, awake, although my thought drifted often, from the side box seat, and I kept on losing track of Romeo. Is he on the stage or off. He ran around, blonde, strong, like a boy from California, not a sweet Montague. Be true, still.

His cape is a weird color of blue and greenish. His tight pants should have been red.

Where is Romeo, on one of the street fighting scene, I tabbed on the shoulder of my friend sitting a row infront of me. We giggled with no sound.


During the intermission, I said, well, this Romeo, he has a good ass, but he is not Romeo, and I kept losing him. I always do.


I am looking for a gentle man, a Romeo that is sad, whose soul sank with burden of love, whose charm, making him indeed the man, if being cut into stars, shall make all fall in love with the night of heaven.

I am looking for a Romeo that could die for love and for whom Juliet will die for.

My Romeo has to be a little vulnerable and less happier or certain of himself, but devilishly charming.

Pale, passionate, whose soul heavy with a lead, not with a sole for dancing, unless, of course, it is so powerful in his beauty but still breakable, as thus made immortal by Neruyev.

Man who are able to love so obessesively and bravely meet up to the doomed love, can only know that despair is the other face of love.

These violent delights have violent ends.

If we all can love moderately, I may not be seaching for my lost one right now. Love and being moderate with it are conflicing notions to me, or to Remo and Juliet.

"You eyes are shining." I told you once in Cherry, the little red lounge on the 39 street and Lexington.

"It is because of the company." You replied.

"You smelled like bricks on the wall of a garden after the rain of Spring." I saw that when I bury my face into your shoulder.

"Don't say you love me, although you maybe the best thing that has ever happened to me." You said that in Serena, the basement bar of the Hotel Chelsea. Unintentionally, we were part of a story of the city.

I am not the best thing that has ever happened to you. I am not as nuturing and reliable and stable and happy.

Things we see and say when we are in love, in deperate and fragile love.

"I am not saying I love you yet. All I am saying is that I came to meet you. I was running. My heart beat faster. I am not saying this to make something into something it is not. That is just what it is." I replied.

You hold me up for the first photo of us taken together, in Serena.

I think people capable of great love are often torn, like dreamers often lie, like we lied too or chose to be silent or secretive, more to hide our weakenss and little rediculous scheming to make ourself look strong, than to deceive.

When I quote this line to my friend on IM, who is 9000 miles away, he said: dreamers often lie down. That makes me laugh.

Everytime, I rode a cab across 42 street to the East side, I passed AMC theatre, I remember you squat infront of the theater one January afternoon with that blueish/green jacket you were wearing, waiting for me to come to watch the film Dreamer.

The youth in the 60s in Paris, the youth who are slightly older than Remeo and Juliet, the youth who explore the world with tender curiosity and guilt.

You hands were touching my knee, so tenderly. We did not talk. We were looking at the riot of Paris on the screen. I love man who deliver moments like that.

I demand vulnerability and tenderness in the eye of Romeo.

Maybe, deep down, in my heart, or all of our hearts, we doubt burning love that can last. We feel it has to be doomed to be great and true, or deserving, the lusty, heartaching and suffocating, sometime burning sometime melting love I am talking about and feeling alive over.

To that extent, I can find Remeo only in a doom of love, rather than in the forever sweetness of a mature companionship and smooth cruise or a easy ballet production. For that, I better settle for a sunshine boy from California.

After the show, my friend and I walked along 10th avenue, the night is sweet and tender, and after the story, we crave for a cozy Italian place.

We passed the Modern and cold Whym, and went to Puccini, the small Italian place, across my building. I will go back to my apartment to grab that bottle of white wine that I just opened previous night, since they are too new to have a alcohol license. I love the idea of bringing your own wine especially when home is just across the street.

Crossing 9 Avenue, suddenly, I was teary, for I remembered our night of struggling at this exact spot that night of January and our numerous walks up this avenue, believing that we are heading somewhere sweet and safe, ultimately. Maybe we still are.

All those violent delights, maybe indeed too strong to find a calm destination to go to. But calm destination is not exactly what we were looking for as lovers. It had to burn.

And Romeo, gentle Romeo, you stay unseen and lost, your soul or sole, are they heavier or lighter?

I finally know that Romeo may only exists when you finally find him, and then lost him, only in this endless longing, which remain unfullfilled even when I am laughing and looks beautiful at this tender night of Spring.