Sometimes I forget. I forget that my admonitions fall on deaf ears. I forget, have forgotten, have never known, the sound of my name in your voice or the feather light whisper of your fingers on my face. Pre-dawn hours, both so raggedly exhausted that our conversation is nothing but giggles and ridiculous flights of fancy. Your eyes are exhausted. You haven’t smiled in years.
I miss you.
(c) 2008
5.3.08
There’s a lot I want to say to you, a lot that has been building up because it feels like you’re not listening anymore. I believe in putting things out into the world so that they exist, if they’re important enough to say, but I’m not sure why I’m choosing this venue because you won’t see, can’t see it, don’t have a way to even know that it’s here, hiding on the blog you don’t know about. But if it’s out in the universe, maybe it will travel through the things we cannot see and implant itself in your subconscious. So here we are. And now I have the floor to say to what I need to say.
I can’t find the words. That’s the problem. I can’t find the words and it seems as though you have turned your back on anything I have to say. You’ve turned your back while simultaneously staying completely open to listening. But you don’t listen. Or you do and choose to pretend you aren’t. Or you just ignore what I’m saying because you’re confused. I’m confused. Why? Why are we doing this? We’ve had a long time to figure out this damn song and dance and yes, I know that before, things were different and I was young and you were trapped and we were different people. We different now, different and the same, closer and probably more aware of the inevitability of it all. I know that before, I was the one who walked away but I want you to understand (and I thought you came to that realization at some point but maybe I was wrong?) that I did it because I had to. I was drowning, I was losing it because you were reaching out so much and you needed so much more than I could give you that I was making myself crazy. I understand why you did it and I was never mad at you for it; I was mad at myself for not being exactly what you needed. We both went to horrible places and then found our ways back to some fractured sense of normalcy and then I remembered.
I remembered you.
At first, you were not having it and god, did it break my heart. I deserved it, deserved your cold shoulder. Then one day, you decided to listen. Bit by little bit, I started to get you back. Trust is a tricky thing and I know I still have to earn so much of it back but I swear to god that this time, I won’t be the one to walk away. And right now, I don’t think you’re walking away or thinking about walking away. I think you’re retreating to think, to sort it all out. That’s fine. That’s wonderful. I don’t want you to engage in anything without knowing it’s what you want. It’s cold without you. I just…I want you to have space and time and everything you need because it’s heavy. It is. I understand that. But please don’t go. Please don’t. I swear to god, please don’t go.
My missing you is so large that I cannot begin to find the edges. I don’t know where to start because everything is the darkest part of night – no stars, no moon, just shadows and me and this giant, hulking thing called Missing You. If I take a step forward, I might find myself miles from you, millions and thousands of miles from you, from this point, and it is a step I’m unwilling to take. Stars shine through sometimes, very dim and barely visible, but I see them and cling to them because I know it is you looking for me in your own deep, dark night. I bathe in that faint light because it is the same as bathing in everything distinctly, warmly you. When the stars fade, when I can no longer see them, I sit myself down in the very darkest part of my very darkest hour and cry until my insides are in shreds and nothing more remains.
© 2008
4.7.2008
Not sure if I’ve posted 3 Cigarettes yet (don’t think I have) but this is the skeleton of that story:
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can touch all the places I’ve ever been. I can smell the air and taste the flavors of my memory and I can see myself outside of myself. From this hotel window, my senses are dead. The room is strewn with typing paper, newspapers, pencils, beer bottles, and tissues. His clothes hang on the back of the chair limply. They have as much will to live as I.
The cigarette between my fingers burns slow and heavy in the evening light. My eyes are bleary from insomnia and alcohol and him. I watch for him without an ounce of care. He has escaped from the darkest recesses of my mind, from the very places I don’t dare tread.
When I take a drag off the cigarette, I hear the paper burn and my senses slowly come to life. Outside I know the air is pungent and sweet. Years ago, before adulthood, I spent these nights running to feel that sweet air on my face. Now I bathe in it with him, shower myself in everything he gives me and everything he takes away.
(c) 2004?
His love is like that of a damp winter’s chill, the kind that grabs a hold of you and won’t let go, even after hours in front of a fire. The chill seeps through your clothing, through your skin, down into your bones. It never lets go. You feel it for days. His love is like this. It is a love so intense that I want to devour him, consume him and make him become a part of me. I want to absorb him into my body and never be rid of him.
His is a love so dizzying and insane and consuming that I want to cry because I have lost control of myself. Lost control of my senses. I want to cry when I see his face, I want to cry when he touches me – the faintest hint of his fingertips against the inside of my wrist, even now a shiver, the cold seeps down into my heart – I want to cry when he kisses me. And in turn, I want to know every inch of him, memorize the curve of his shoulder, the lines of his chest, the unforgiving point of his elbow.
His love is being buried under a down blanket on a rainy day. His love is losing my mind in the middle of the grocery store. His love is abandoning dinner on the stove for a higher purpose, burning dinner to know he loves me completely and without hesitation. His love is forgetting myself and remembering myself in the chaotic harmonies of his rhythm, of his life. His love is sorrow and joy, mourning and celebrating, dying and living. All in one breath.
© 2003
The clocks tick, gears sweeping past one another, and I’m seeing your fingers in my hair, your smile, your laugh. Eternity inching toward eternity, shades of gray and blue, late nights at the window, I’m seeing your face in the sky. The intricate dance as the puzzle pieces fall into place, one at a time, as time leaves us, makes us older, shreds just a little bit more of our patience. Seconds separate us, just a thin veil of moments stitched between us, I’m seeing your hand reach for mine.
© 2005
10.3.05
The steady roll of the waves, the impending tides – high and low – your hands on my face. Buzzing from wine, from the sun, from the nearness of you. Away to the city, gleaming like a gold diamond in the sinking sun, the ocean resplendent – pink, purple, gold – and the walk-up we call home. There are gulls crying around us, fighting for the scraps we won’t give them. The smell of you mixed with the smell of the water, of the sand, of the world revolving below us. Like being caught on an old reel-to-reel, stuck in slow motion and black-and-white, we play on, play out, return home to our nest, nesting in each other, hands and mouths delicately placed, the explosion of emotion and the soft sigh of satisfaction. The lingering seduction of the ocean on your skin, tasting the salt spray on my tongue, drinking the water long after saying goodbye to the beach.
The perfection you achieve in my imagination. You set against San Francisco – blue eyes made bluer, exhaustion made delicious, feasting turned sensual. The perfection you achieve in my imagination is impeccable.
© 2005
1.31.05
Sometimes I dream that I’m a bird caught on an updraft from the ocean and soaring out over the violent gray water. Sometimes I dream that I’m myself and as I plummet down a rocky cliff face toward the sharp rocks below, I fling my arms and legs wide and skim the surface of the water in a moment of unbelievable bliss.
That is how it feels to love you.
(c) 2.22.08
It’s blind hysteria pulling at your brain, collapse only a moment away. There is always something to take the edge off. There is always something to soothe the nerves. The biting clutches of alcohol help. Food. Him. Sex. Whatever you can get your hands on first. The idea of him going away without you is enough to make you kill yourself and you don’t know why. You’ve screamed the question to your reflection for over a year and you never answer. No one answers. Everything is blank and chaotic, voices too loud, the silence unsettling. Sweet flowers on the air and all you smell is how things are in your head. The fiction. The fantasy. Every day you shove yourself into reality. You remove every blinder any person could have and you reveal yourself over and over again, black and weak and exposed. All his damage ripping you apart with each breath and every time you see him, you know he can see it written all over your face: weak, debilitated, lonely, desperate, victim, victim, victim. You fantasize about dying in front of him, about him finding you as you breathe your last, about him driving needles into his skin to cope. There are days when you feel half-awake, half-dead. When you want nothing more than for him to grab you and press you into him until you disappear and breathe with his lungs. You fantasize about frigid winters and snowy oceans, about stretching yourself over the cold, cold ground and eating the dirt until you choke. You dream of hermitic life. You dream of forsaking everything. Part of you really wants him to rape you. To lure you away to the dark recesses of his world, to intoxicate you with his words, his charms, his elixirs, and then force you to the floor and destroy you in the blink of an eye. You want to see him covered in your blood, taking pleasure in your terror, calling you a whore, a slut, a fucking disgusting little cunt and you think that this will be the one thing you won’t survive. You will finally break the barrier between hysteria and insanity and you will careen over the edge, opening your mouth to scream and sobbing instead, sobbing out of regret, out of guilt, out of shame.
All of this plays through your head in the time it takes for you to roll over and shut off the alarm clock.
© 5.3.05
Something I should do more but don’t is free write to music. For me, this means putting a playlist or my entire iPod on shuffle and writing through a series of songs, stopping when the song changes. It’s good for quick bursts and kind of stirs up my mind a bit. I don’t stop for spelling and sometimes, it turns out as nothing but incomplete sentences. Here is one in particular that I just re-read and kind of liked.
**
Song: Crush
Artist: Dave Matthews Band
Nothing smells as good as cold mountain air. Smelling it on your skin, in your hair, adhered to every fabric of your being, drives me crazy. We are bundled from head to toe to protect us from the sharp chill of night but I know that under these layers our bodies are well aware. Nothing could mask your body’s presence. We huddle together as close to the fire as we dare, marshmallows on sticks, broken graham crackers and candy bars at our sides. An empty bottle of wine and the joint we’ve yet to light. We’re both a little too scared of this abandonment. When did we become these people? When did we begin to taste the shadows and forbidden pleasures? Your marshmallow catches fire and giggling, we blow it out and in some sort of scandalously sexual display, you eat the thing off the end of the stick. Strange how turned on I am, strange how badly I want to discard these heavy winter clothes and feel your cold skin against mine, feel the dirt and rocks and leaves and sticks dig into my back and thighs. Who are you and what have you done with the real me?
A weekend of abandon, you told me. A weekend in the mountains, a weekend with the clean air and sparkling lake and the smell of pine trees. Intoxicating radiance, I remember thinking. Earlier in the night we watched the sun disappear behind the mountain knowing that the darkness fell a little earlier here than it did hundreds of feet above us. I am suddenly bored with roasting marshmallows and getting drunk beside the fire. I want to drag you and your abandon back into the cabin and demonstrate how long I’ve been longing for a moment like this. A moment full of cold air and wood smoke and wine and your mouth, your body, your every molecule. A kiss. An open mouth kiss, soft tongues and lips, and your hands. My hands. Quiet moans, just us, just the two of us and these giant mountains trying to peek in the windows. Abandon.
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