I dreamt of you last night. You filled my darkening soul with the moonlight I remembered you bringing each midnight when the book fell out of my hands and your shirt became knotted in my palms. Your fist beat against my door and there you stood, shirtless like when you'd brush your teeth in the bathroom in the morning. The words pouring out of your mouth weren't words but melodies, curling ghostly fingers into my hair like a breeze curling around headstones. We pushed back onto my red fainting couch like we'd pushed against each other time and time again with bodies hanging off of each other.
Hands turned manic and hungry in the dream as we shoved on through each room in the house, your hand slipping down my skirt and hazy clouds troubling my eyes until they are leaking glass on your bare chest. How did we get here? How did we reach this world where only in a dream can I feel a goodbye leaving your lips and lodging in my ribs? I loved you more than that. You loved us more than that.
Seeing you in your new life woke your ghost up for me once more, let him wander through my door and letting him stain my bedsheets. That immediate and intense recognition at the bar hit me like the bourbon always settles in my kneecaps and makes me faint. If her cough syrup hair can soothe you more than my mocha strands, I am truly happy for you. Her soft eyes and curved chin, I can see they will fit perfectly in your palm.
These streets that twist and turn in front of my
rearview like I left you that night last spring-
twisted in your sheets, heart breaking, a ring
without a hand to hold its diamond high-
lead me down the same road, the same old sky.
But now my car is empty and I sing
our love song in silence, my lips that cling
to the last taste of you and our last sigh.
The suitcase skyline holds me here although
I try to pack your smell under my bras
and travel size shampoo. But I can't drive
away, can't seem to drive your scent below.
The wheel circles round all of my faux pas.
Without you here all I can do is drive.
I'm not ready to write him.
Not ready to let him come
back to life.
I don't want to remember the good.
I don't want to relive the bad.
If I don't cry about it soon,
tears will have to start seeping
from every pore
and fall from my lashes like
snowflakes blown off of telephone wires,
buzzing, alive, alone.
I miss the beautiful destruction.
I miss throwing myself onto
hot coals for another human being.
Feeling another's glowing embers
embedded into my flesh,
eating it away.
But I do not miss any of them.
I don't miss the first one I loved,
his turquoise smell or loaded kisses.
I don't miss the second,
his day-old scruff and deceit.
I don't miss the third,
lovely and loving and lost.
Even though I don't miss them,
there are some I cannot bring
myself to write.
Still too fresh, still too bright,
still too real and sharp.
The pen has turned into an IV,
and it's full of remembrance
instead of morphine.
The white flag of surrender has been raised. The white flag of peace. Of no ill will. The white flag of clarity and goodbye. I've jumped back and forth between humiliated and jubilated. Sadness and relief. It's not as hard as I thought it would be to let you go.
My sister talked me down and after surrounding myself with family and light, I saw the dark cloud you brought with you. I was hugged this weekend. Truly hugged. I was believed in and praised. I felt like me again. I felt excited for the future instead of imprisoned in the past, reaching up between the bars and barely grazing the silver lining of a future cloud.
I gave you everything I had. All of my faith was thrust to you. All I wanted to do was reassure you about how wonderful you are and how much potential you have. Through that process I lost my own potential and my dreams too.
The saddest part is that you didn't take any of it. Not a word. You stayed self deprecating and difficult and distant. You want so badly to be the bad guy, but you need to understand that you are a good guy. You would be a winner if you let yourself. If you pushed yourself or cared about more than just appearing unfeeling, you could dig yourself out of this mess. Maybe I could love you again.
This is what I've realized. You've changed. You aren't who you were when you were with me and I needed to be told that no matter what I did, I could never make you believe in yourself again. That's not my job. If you choose to stay this dark and deviant, I have to let you. Maybe one day you will wake up and I will be able to smile at you again. Best of luck in staying sad and drunk. I'll be over here living my life and laughing in love.
I loved you hard. I loved your memory though. It took seeing a weekend full of funerals and and family for me to realize that if I were to walk back in to you, I'd walk straight to death. I wouldn't be happy and I'd be held back.
I was wrong earlier. I was right to get brave. I was right to call you and thank you so much for answering me. It helped me see that you weren't you anymore and to see my potential again. My love for you had turned phantasmagorical. I was chasing my past and if I learned anything from Gatsby, it's the danger of doing that. I need to chase a brighter tomorrow, not a 10 watt past. I'm ready to be alone for a while. To see myself before I see others. I'm excited to be me for a while.
I don't think you will follow through in calling me. And that's ok. I don't know if I'd go anyway. It would be for the wrong reasons now. Thank you for inspiring beautiful poetry, I'm sure you still will. Thank you for the beautiful past. Thank you for making me see that I want no part of that to intoxicate my future, no matter how beautiful it was. I'll always look back at it with warm nostalgia.
I belted my black dress, threw on my red jacket, sat on the crushed velvet couch in my front room, rubbing my thumbs in hasty circles around each other. Your headlights pierced through my curtains of hair as I watched your car roll into my driveway. Before you could make your way up the snowy walk, I was out the door coming toward you. My heart pumped too fast, my face flushed, I prayed I wouldn't slip as you grabbed my hand and opened the door for me. While you walked back to the driver's side, I exhaled sharply, trying to calm down. You made me so nervous. I'd never been nervous around a boy. You made me nervous, thrills running through my fingertips.
The talk was light and colored by trepidation, the night we met slapped around in jest. The oddity of us actually going out after the strangest meeting possible.
You look nice in real lighting.
I like your voice when it's not shouting over the bass dropping speakers.
More water?
Your halloween costume was clever.
I'm glad we're really doing this.
More pizza?
Sorry for that night.
What a great memory.
I can't believe that was real.
I like your tattoos.
Any dessert?
I love your dress.
You're smart.
Want to see my apartment?
(Bet you say that to all the girls.)
Just you.
Suddenly, the girls next to us caught us mid conversation. "We're studying interpersonal relationships in school. Are you two on a first date? Cause so far he's really into you, and she's still unsure. But oh my god you guys are so cute, and so are your tights, girl. Give him a chance." Your face grew brighter than the candle in front of us and I laughed loudly as I darted my gaze to your nervous smile. They'd given your cool away. James Dean sunk back deeper on your chest as you hugged your shoulders up to your ears and hung your head. We stood to leave, I thanked the girls for the best dessert I could have hoped for, and we ran all the way to your car laughing and blushing.
You stayed quiet until we reached your apartment. Suddenly you seemed unsure and vulnerable. I gripped your hand, suddenly the strong one in the car. They are wrong, I whispered, I'm not unsure at all. Show me your apartment. You smiled in relief and James Dean sighed on your chest.
We watched The Walking Dead.
You held my hand as my heart disintegrated in your palm.
We drove along the nighttime streets toward my house. Slow down, I thought, this can't be all. I'm not done tonight.
We had to traverse through the unplowed narrows to my back gate and up to my back door. You left me at the door, no kiss on my lips, and started to walk away. I grabbed your forearm, right where your compass inked out, pointing north to my chest. I'll walk you to the gate, I offered. I'll be the gentleman, I joked.
Goodbye was hard and then you met my eye line.
"You'll be around, right? You're not going anywhere?"
No, love. I'm always here.
Finally your lips met mine, hungry and soft. We kissed against the gate, then against the door. You walked away and I shut the door softly behind me, falling against it, eyes closed, breath hot and alive.
I ran to my front door, threw it open and stood on the porch, on the tips of my toes, a bird waiting to fall out of the nest. Your car was on. You flipped on the overhead light, tilted your head with a coy smile and beckoned me with your finger. My heart exploded. My eyes blurred. I loved you then. I knew right then, and I let myself go. (I blush even now, months later. I can't type that memory with open eyes.)
Your headlights, the frosty air, your arms. They held me captive against the garage door, squeaking and staring as we kissed again and again. The stars spun as we finally let go, as you finally drove away.
I fell asleep still smelling you on my skin and tasting you on my lips.
Outside the sky is trying to hold back October tears, letting a few get brushed away by the trees outside my window. Calm autumn tears. Transitional tears.
I'm huddled up in bed, a drawer from my bedside table in my lap, heavy with misplaced odds and ends. Bottles of lotion, old and new. Lip gloss from various Easter baskets and Christmas stockings. Old CD cases, lists of books to be read, batteries, bobby pins, dental floss, band aids. Everything labeled too essential to be far from my bed, but not essential enough to be sorted into a proper place.
My hand is swallowed by the open mouth in the drawer. I feel a bite and rip my hand out of the pile, dripping red from a hole lightly opened by a rogue thumbtack. I follow the stream of red and see that it's gathering on a folded up receipt page. It's crumpled near the back of the drawer, now cloaked in dark human red. I unfold the note.
A page of Barnes and Noble book recommendations, all crossed out. The top of the page proclaims "You may also like..." leading to a penned response that simply states "ME." Underneath that, "I love you, a lot. R."
The bleeding of my finger has stopped as the pregnant sky starts to fall. The page is ruined, marred by maroon. I contemplate keeping the page, blood and all. But I'm not that morbid. Not quite yet. This note was never junk, a love note that must have drifted into the drawer outside of a book's page, where it should have stayed. Maybe soon another note will drift into my hands, kept safer this time. Cherished and protected. This time.
i felt the fall air today
for the first time this year.
summer set,
fall tiptoed in through
the back door,
softly,
almost unnoticed.
she brushed past the kitchen,
she strayed down the stairs,
she gussied up in the mirror in the hall.
she didn't knock as she
pushed in sideways through
my bedroom door,
barely clearing the crack.
i sighed in my sleep,
briefly stirring as she
kissed my forehead
and held my hand.
"everything is starting again,
my love. everything will change.
everything will grow as
the leaves drift down to sleep
on loamy, grassy beds.
the pieces will fall back into place,
your heart will heal and mend,
as the summer sun will end."
i smiled at her speech,
the kindness in her eyes.
"don't take too long, dear fall,
to bring my pieces back to me.
my bed is cold.
i don't want to feel the
winter chill
without his hand."
"winter was lonely and long,
spring was all pastels,
garish and sad.
summer was rash and hollow,
full of reminders and regret.
but i, my love, i blow the
leaves about, clear the dust
from strained and aching eyes.
fall is your shelter,
fall will bring you peace,
fall makes it all fall back,
the puzzle in your head and heart
finally solved.
sleep now, dear heart,
and do not dread the cold.
until your heart is back in his hand,
my hand won't leave your side."
as i slept
she brushed my hair,
sang me mountain hymns of
sprites and kings,
lionhearts and their maidens.
i dreamt of my lionheart,
our chilly days past
and future, falling into place
in her crisp gaze.
I have a mere two weeks of my internships left. Two weeks until I can get back to my life. Two weeks until I can stop living for others and begin life for myself. Mr. Larsen told me a few weeks back that there is only so much a person can take of sitting in the used grey shadows of the dreams of others before their own dreams come busting forth too powerful to contain.
Life keeps inching forward toward happiness and growth and it's giving me warm visions for the future. You are in every single vision. Every night as the moon crests the mountains and life gets clearer and closer to the finish line of September, your face eases in to my mind like ink rushing across a page. Our hazy grey days keep swimming in my mind and brimming across my eyelids in steady waterfalls.
My inconstant moon- just out of reach- is keeping me up at night. I'll take the moon's indirect gaze until it is ready to warm my nights with it's silver grey light. I feel big things coming. I feel the moon pulling my hand forward like the tides.
It is ridiculous how much I love this song. I have been fighting the Miley love so so hard. First We Can't Stop was my guilty pleasure, then the VMAs lost me for a hot second. But this. This is perfection. Perfection. Why is this song my week? Give this a listen. Finally she chose to show off her voice, with feeling and power. And utter honesty.
I love the video. So much symbolism I could die. Mmm. Pain is deliciously addictive, girl. You lick that sledgehammer.
I understand this too. I understand how hard it is to try and battle all of these demons without hurting those closest to you. When I feel like the rest of my world is collapsing and misunderstanding me, I destroy the one beautiful thing I have in my life. I never mean to hurt that person, but I always accidentally throw them out of my life. I am so sorry. I hate that I do this. I am so sorry. The most I can do is try to piece us back together after my storm has passed.
The wall of steam pushed against me as hard as you did the moment I came through the door. In your ice box apartment you stood in a towel, dripping on the floor, laughing as you pulled me close. The droplets of water kissed my nose as you kissed my neck. You untied the bow around my waist. You undid my buttons. I slid my coat off and slid onto the couch as you stepped into the kitchen turning back over your shoulder toward me, a half moon smile lighting across your face. Your smile was turquoise that night. It illuminated me.
The music cradled my back as I laid across the love seat, aptly named. Hand in hand on that seat we fought off zombies and doubts. I fed you soup when you were ill, you rubbed my back as I cried. I confessed my shame to your open arms and confessed my love tucked into your chest. Our first date ran long on that seat; our last night cut short. I couldn't see how it would all end as I lay there that night, rocking with the music waiting for my moon to rise again.
You turned the corner again, this time in tight jeans, shirt slung across your back. I could taste the memory forming on my lips, sliding through my spine, stored in the memory card in my brain. You were perfect that night. Your eyebrow rose as you crossed in front of me into the bathroom. I had a perfect view of your flexing back as you brushed your teeth and mussed your hair. With your hands pressed straight into the sink, your shoulder blades kissed, your skin tugged tight. I could see us across the country, hidden away from it all, years from now. I loved you hard and fast in that instant.
I see you so clearly that night on the love seat. I'm still on that love seat, waiting for the new moon to pull back into my sky.
The waiter leaves the water on the table and we both turn to watch the condensation run down the glass. Another testament to your goodness, this is my favorite restaurant. My favorite dishes. My favorite city. The only favorite you have is me, and suddenly I'm not delivering anymore. I watch the condensation spilling off the glass in silence and you watch me, waiting for me to spill.
Your hand reaches out for mine across the table. Your fingertips barely touch my nail beds, resting like feathers on top of newly erupted grass. I glance into your eyes, your eyes radiating love and honesty. My eyes give you nothing. I've become an actress in my own life, unable to remember her motivation or her lines.
The last dish comes as I gratefully jolt my hand back from the table. I can smile at the waiter, but not at you. I hear you beginning to speak, but it's all mumbles and colors flying in one ear and straight out the other. You don't deserve this. All you ever did was try.
I tried too, until I didn't. I don't know when it happened, but suddenly I didn't see you anymore. I didn't see much of anything, really.
You pay while I stare at your neck, remembering warmer nights in the late fall haze that have smoldered down into a match trying hard to blow itself out. You keep cupping your hands around it, hoping it will hold on. Until one night, I purse my lips, guide your hands away, and blow it out myself.
