I was there

Yes, I’m lonely. But it’s not his fault. The lies kept me company for quite awhile. Now they have scatted like autumn leaves. Flirting with the warm earth. Waiting for the cold rains to wash away all those silly possibilities. Like searching for that needle in a haystack. Not knowing what I’ll do when I find it.

I’ve never denied being there. I’ve never claimed to be innocent. The surprising part is that the world kept turning.

The years tumbling, stumbling along. As if nothing ever happened. And sometimes I have to wonder if maybe nothing did. Not out of the ordinary, anyway. Like walking for miles with a rock in my shoe. I could stop and shake it out, but I’m far too determined to get there. The pain little more than a distraction.

I can go back as far as I’d like but I cannot change a thing.

Remembering

Sometimes I see him reaching out. His fingers splayed and grasping. Nothing else, just his hand, emerging from the darkness. Small, innocent, trusting. Believing that someone else is reaching back.

I returned and looked again. Time has passed, but some things remain the same. All the world like quiet snowflakes. Falling on frozen memories. I guess I’ll never know why. In my dreams he’s right there. At the end of my fingertips. But my body is paralyzed and I can do little more than look and wait. For the nightmare to end. Only it never does. Just a calm surrender to the past and nagging questions that pull like tiny anchors.

Maybe I was too young. Maybe I was too weak. He was always the stronger one. All those snips and snails and puppy dog tails. No match for sugar and spice. Maybe I just wanted to know what it would be like. The future just something make believe back then.

Now it flaunts itself in the denial of a failed poet. Wasting my life, trying to explain things that I never can.

Time to wake up

I’m afraid. Of what the words might say. Should I give them the freedom they so crave. I want to write about the tragedies. To make them less tragic, perhaps. Turn them into stories and tales. Wave my wand and watch the butterflies burst forth from their cocoons. Steal back that message in a bottle, so no one will ever know. Not that my SOS went very far.

I want to relive the moments, but not as they happened. I want to change history, because I believe I have the power. Adjusting life’s rearview mirror, so I can see what’s behind me. It’s not in the past until I take that first step back.

Just frail wings, but the potential for so much catastrophe. Children crouching in the cold, until the darkness drives them home. Creeping up the sleeping steps, so loud and cruel. Surrendering to the blink of tiny lights, but it’s too late.

The fairy tale shatters. Lives come to a screeching halt. Pieces, pieces everywhere, but no words to give them flight.

I want to write about the tragedies. I want to wake up from this life.

No less lost

Pretending I have what I want, or that I know how to get it. That I could pick up the phone and he would just know, to be serious or silly. And I guess what amazes me most, is that he can be either. Like a door, opening or closing, the effort is the same but the results are different.

Too many places to go and so I just stand still and hope, that somehow the choice will be made for me. This balancing pole growing heavy in my hands. The tightrope stretching out for miles. Almost wishing I was young again. The pain the same, but somehow life was less of a stranger then.

I fear someday he may ask. And I fear even more I may tell him. As words become sentences he cannot understand. All those childhood monsters under my bed shredding dreams I’ve never had. Dog paddling through the opening scenes so I can get right to the tragedy. Where the damsel establishes her distress.

I keep thinking I have time. To forget. To paint the walls in all those shades of teenage colorblindness. Just two people with nothing to hide. No less lost for having found each other.

In the middle

Intermission, between the acts of a play not yet written. He tells me otherwise, but sometimes I have to wonder. If this isn’t what my life has become. As the hours turn into days and my pockets fill with silence. I wish I didn’t care so much, which way he comes from and which way he goes. I wish it didn’t matter so much, that so few of his thoughts are about me.

Testing my love with old litmus paper. Thinking the results might change. As the bruises on my knees turn into rainbows. Getting up; falling back down again. Each night I dream myself smaller. Making life seem farther away. Fooling the cold with more blankets and less movement. I wake up unable to remember the dream, but incapable of forgetting that I had it.

Sometimes life only makes sense when the lights are off.

Otherwise

Days without a sign and then it all catches up. I have these words, but I never know what to do with them. The afterwards is such a lonely place. The movie ends, the credits roll, but my name is never there. My heart is empty, despite all those things that fight to fill it. The lights come on, but I have no place to go.

I count the steps, out of habit. Up to heaven down to hell. It makes no difference. Neither door will open for me. My gods have always been tangible. And yet I can never get close enough.

There must be a beginning, middle and end, no matter how far I skip ahead. Pages unturned nothing more than dying flowers in dirty water. The closing song never sad enough. I always assume it’s obvious, how I feel. But his actions tell me otherwise.

What it was like

It’s possible I spent too many hours drinking back the years. Knowing no other way. Painting pictures of leopards so I could steal their spots. A lonely child with a faulty compass, searching for the forest, but never the trees.

All flames are not the same. It depends on what you’re burning. But the heat is consistent in its anxiousness. Tiny stones skipping across an infinite expanse. Thinking I’ll be able to find them again, but I never can.

Just save me some minutes. So I can have something to look forward too. Our conversations too casual to be satisfying. Forcing me to find intensity in all the wrong ways. To be homeless again. Writing my words with razor blades. Diaries of dead memories. I know you listen, but you never seem to hear me.

Windows

I feel it, but I cannot keep it. At least not long enough. For times when the rain seeps inside and dampness covers everything. So many empty rooms and I seem to be in all of them. I can hear the beat of the drum, but not the music. Like his warmth on my sheets after he has gone. Pretending that he thinks of me as I think of him. Until the enormity of the world reminds me how small I really am.

There is no such thing as loneliness when there is no one to want. Just pretty colors spoiling the darkness. Arrogant storm clouds so confident of their thunder. I have to write it down or it will all be lost. Little lies to create bigger ones.

Sipping on my denial while it’s still hot. There is no future for us, just a past. And dirty windows that keep us apart from each other. I remind him that glass can be broken, like many things, but he never believes me.

Asking dumb questions

I always wonder, will it end with a whimper or a bang? Because everything ends, eventually. Waiting for my words to come to a boil. It’s funny how I never think it will happen like this. Life isn’t made of complete sentences. People stutter and clear their throats and think I should know. It’s always about what doesn’t get said.

I want the butterfly to sneeze. I’m going to go back in time and swat every mosquito. So these walls will finally cave in on a world I don’t recognize. Just a clumsy girl with a heart made of glass.

I guess forever isn’t as long as I thought.

Time out

I’ve decided to stop writing for awhile. I’m just too broken these days; too lost. Too many pieces that seem like they should fit, but they don’t. Writing about it used to make me feel better, but it doesn’t anymore. It just magnifies how lost I really am.

Hating myself and my life

When I was 20, I tried to kill myself. I sometimes tell people I was 16. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I had more reason at age 16 and should have tried it then. Maybe I would have succeeded. At age 20, I failed. But it wasn’t because I didn’t try. My plan was fine; I just didn’t take into account everything that might happen. There’s no way I could have. Because not in my wildest dreams could I have know that someone who hated me would ultimately save me.

I was 20 and my world was crumbing or had crumbled. There was nothing left to live for. The man I loved was slowly going crazy. I had no job, no home. I could find no warmth. Everything was cold and frozen and dirty. I was more alone than I had ever been in my life. There was so much nothing.

I’ve always wished for a different life. I’ve always wondered why everything has to hurt. All the time. Why memories and ghosts and the coldness of my past is always there. And why the people I think I love seldom are. At least not when I need them. Which is always.

Life could have been over at 20. And yes, I would have missed out on some magical moments. But magic is an illusion. I sometimes wonder if it all isn’t an illusion. These feeling that I think I have to write about and this love in my heart that threatens to tear a hole through my skin and scream its existence to the world.

I hear it sometimes, in the sound of a city bus pulling away from the curb. A train whistle in the distance. The muffled thud of a door closing as someone walks in, and then out.

I shouldn’t be here. And yet, I am.

Sometimes I hate myself

It’s so easy in my head. I just say the words and they float away like tired dandelions on the edge of the wind. Perched helplessly on the lips of a gentle breeze, anxiously awaiting that first kiss. But in the real world, where the lights are bright and breezes are seldom, my words hide like field mice. Afraid of their own shadows. And I can only watch as silence floods the land.

Scared

I don't know what it is. I start a sentence or two, then hit close without saving. When I was a kid, I had a hard time learning to read. They call is dyslexia now. Back then I just thought I was stupid. But it feels the same. The words moving around, shifting and twitching and changing their positions. I try, but then it all gets too frustrating. Like over sleeping and having to race through the day, trying to make up for lost time.

Or maybe, if I could ever be honest with myself. I’m just scared of what I might have to say.

Chasing words

Nothing to say lately. Which isn’t really true at all. But I’m tired of chasing the words. Like that one last pea on a plate that doesn’t want to be eaten. I stab and miss and eventually decide I’m not hungry anymore.

I suspect ink would still pour out if I were to wound myself. Which I will not do, although the idea is tempting. Forcing words to rhyme is like leading that proverbial horse to water. It’s so easy to believe I’ll never fall out of love while I’m falling. That this thundercloud opera in my chest will still be echoing years from now.

My arms outstretched as I walk the rails. As if my bones were hollow and I could drink endless heartache from the darkening sky. I have no purpose anymore, just presence. Like stars on redundant pedestals. A t-shirt stained with tears. Remembering a time not so long ago when death sat at the kitchen table and I had no fear of immortality. Somehow the world made sense and I could churn out poetry in the name of being alive.

Suspicious

The hours drip like melting ice. And why shouldn’t they? Nothing lasts forever. It all disappears, evaporates without a trace. As if nothing was ever there. And sometimes I have to wonder if I’m not imaging all this?

Believing that love will come my way and want to stay for more than a day or two. These thoughts, these feelings, like threaded needles trying to close up bleeding gashes. An effort in futility to keep alive what died so long ago.

The sweetness of his touch only makes me crave more. The love in his eyes just another song I’m not meant to hear. I name the days as if that will help me find what’s missing. My otherwise empty heartbeats like quiet footsteps in slippered feet.

Love might as well be made of paper dolls. Hands touching because they have no choice in the matter. I watch my life search the floor for its socks and shoes. Suspecting that it’s true. It's all just temporary after the door closes.

Poem from my hotel room - Part 2

What to say
when the words won't rhyme,
all that is felt
falls like a stone?

Where to sleep
when life takes me away?
Where to put my sadness
when even love won't fit?

How did the past
make me so fragile,
that I break under the weight
of it?

Where to begin when unraveling?
Visions that proceed the other,
the mist of breath upon shower walls,
for a length of time undetermined.

Whispers tumbling through
in every click of the channel,
when there's a stumble
under this popcorn ceiling barricade.

Connections undeniable,
trying to slow the water
trickling down.
as the loneliness rushes

eloping within
half thoughts of suicide
awaiting my own arrival
back home with you.

Poem from my hotel room - Part 1

Mistakes gathering in puddles,
following the dots of every raindrop.
My fingers trailing upon the railing
as I ascend and descend, every bump,
every ridge tempting.
Trying to forget
as forgetting will allow.

My hollow footsteps so tragic here
against the silence.
Loves reprisal always hiding
in the words I’ll never say.
Even in this place,
guarded by distance.
Colors longing to dance again
with shades of gray.
Twines of time,
stringing me into the places
where I wish to be.

And here,
hidden within these walls of sympathy,
I lay awake.
Visions trapping,
overlapping,
stifled by the door.
Leaning into the feelings
as if they were the wind.
Wishing I knew where to go
when redirected,
as detour signs vanish
with the setting sun.

Melt

Sometimes, we'll both stop in the middle of our crazy conversation and stare at each other - quite forgetting who started what and whose story was the oddest - we'll stop and stare, and each will remember what's most beloved about the other... and then he'll smile a blindingly sweet smile, and I’ll melt away.

Alone

When I’m not with him I wonder. What he’s doing. Alone, maybe, like me. On the couch or in a chair, reading maybe, thinking. I want to call him, but sometimes we need this time apart, so I resist and let him be. I sit alone on the bed and pretend I’m paying attention to no particular movie. But deep in my heart I’m hoping. He'll call.

Room 607

A toast...

To resting my head on his shoulder. To seeing the universe in his eyes. To the comfortable silence. To the lack of secrecy. To his protective arms around me. To the way I’m not alone whenever I think of him.

To every time he’s said, “me too.”

Waiting for the words

What to write that hasn’t already been written? What to feel that hasn’t already been felt?

Pacing in the shadow of my own decision, elastic possibilities snapping me back. Alone, with myself, once more. Alone, with everyone, as always. Closeness, intimacy, understanding. Just a lie told by anxious fingers.

I keep trying on these dreams. So certain one will fit. Like turning pages in the dark because I already know the words. But dreams are only as good as the person who dreams them. Trying to write it all down before I forget. Always talking to myself, afraid to say it out loud. Wishing the whole time I was someone else.

The problem isn't that I’m waiting for him; it’s that he's not waiting for me.

What I hate

It's the clock on the bedside table that keeps reminding me that the rest of the world is sound asleep and I will not be able to get this anger out of my head before it crawls into my chest.

But tonight I came to realize that I am in love with the way his voice caresses my ears. And the way his body crashes against mine. Like waves washing away sad poetry buried in the sand. And how when I hold his hand, I remember how much I hate to be alone.

And how my heart will always find a reason not to believe a single word he says.

Stars and wishes

Twisting my words like balloon animals. He hands me an abstract red giraffe and I take it and smile. As if I didn’t have to hold up the heavens to keep the stars from falling.

I miss talking, like we used to sometimes. Where our words meant everything and lasted longer. But now it feels like the sky might shatter worse than my heart. And I doubt his hands could let go of the door knob long enough to catch the pieces.

Maybe I should just face the fact that I’m too broken. The letters drip from my fingertips as the silence settles in, but it’s not comforting. Confused promises and lingering hope and the fear that I may run out of ink before I can say the words that are so anxious to be heard.

I picture the way his hands could set all those stars free. Scatter them like diamonds, back to where they belong. And I wish that I could somehow paint my secrets across the darkened sky for him to see. But I am so afraid of how easily I crumble to the sound of his heartbeat and how my skin aches for his touch to decorate me with goose bumps.

I wish I could be more than just a cloud in his beautiful sky.

And now for something different

I made a video. Okay, I didn’t actually “make” it. I kind of “barrowed” pieces from other peoples’ videos and made a new video. If you go to my profile, you’ll see a link to a blog called Movies, Photos and That Kind of Stuff. Go to that blog (or click on the link) and you’ll see my masterpiece. I plan on posting more videos here. I may not, but it's my plan at the moment.

Cool huh? Or maybe you’re saying, “I don’t get it.” What’s with the girl and who’s that guy?

I’m not going to tell you about the guy. If you’re a regular reader, maybe you can figure out the guy. Maybe. And the girl? Well, the girl is supposed emphasize the title – Different Worlds. The girl is a metaphor. And so is the guy. What isn’t a metaphor?

The video is supposed to be about the guy, going about his life. Maybe he knows the girl, maybe not. Maybe he knows someone like her, or maybe he used to be a lot like her. It doesn’t really matter, because she’s a metaphor, and because he’s got this entirely different life going on. He lives in a different world.

And the girl. Yeah, the girl. How many of you can relate to the girl? Hitchhiking, playing guitar on the street, trying to reach out, but no one’s there. Certainly not someone like the guy.

Because they live in different worlds. We all do. Sometimes our worlds touch each other, briefly. But most of the time we don’t even notice. We’re too busy. Trying to get things out of the way so we can move on to the next. Too busy to notice. Too busy to care.

Different worlds. We’re all people sharing this planet, but we live in different worlds.

Best kept secrets

He has never asked "What’s wrong?" or "Are you okay?" As if he knows better. But he has said, "You can tell me anything.” And sometimes I want to believe that statement.

That I could tell him anything or everything. And that would somehow release all these little demons. They would go back to where they came from, or to where they now belong.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Unlocking their cages doesn’t set them free. If anything, it gives them permission to run about. In an explosion of emotion they shed their skins and are born anew. At least locked up, at least hidden in the dark, I know where they are and what they are doing.

And besides, it’s almost impossible to describe how the walls are closing in, how the sky is falling, how the world is running out of oxygen, but I manage to keep on breathing. As the past gets a little closer with every step I take away from it.

How every day is like an open drawbridge and I’m just waiting for the ship to pass.

Dark vs. light

He fits so well into this world. Seamless and solid like a park bench in summer. He just belongs.

He claims he doesn’t, that this is not his home, but I think that’s mostly for my benefit. He contemplates time and space and the possibility of life beyond the stars, like a poet with a heart made of glass. But it’s all just Shakespeare. It’s all just pretending he sees the darkness in the corners. His world is so full of light. Compared to the murkiness that I make my way through. Day after day.

His future in its fancy clothes and me not even caring if it’s dressed. Cautious feet going down steep steps. The laces tied by tired fingers. It takes so little for things to come undone.

And yet he stands there, his back to the window, to the past. As if all of this is worth it.

The road

It was a good feeling, to be headed down that road with someone. To not be alone for once. Everything real so far away. The distance measured in soft caresses, not hard miles.

But then he stopped or got detoured or found a shortcut. Because suddenly his warmth wasn’t there anymore. No footprints except my own. That road less traveled not his cup of tea, I guess. And I wanted so to be more than just a name to him. Because a goodbye offers no parting gifts; just empty boxes.

So I stopped, backtracked, consulted the map on the best way to get from sex to love without friendship. And there he was again. His hand in mine. Each step providing hope where none should exist.

Not friends, but not strangers. No sound other than the steady beat in my head, and so I listen as the music spreads. Colorizing the lament of that road not traveled.

Depressed

Just lying. On the bed, one arm flat against the coolness of the cotton sheets. The other quite comfortable in that hollow above my hip.

Just listening. To the sound of the wind in the trees. Voices along for the ride. A siren in the distance.

Just wishing. That I could forget myself. Feeling my pulse flutter. A panicked beat in my thigh. Emptiness in my chest like something locked alone in a room without windows.

Just thinking. That I come here too often anymore. My palms sweating, my muscles trembling. Weights on my eyelids trying to convince the world I’m dead.

Just floating. In a still life painting amongst fruit and flowers. Their shadows giving them depth. Remembering a time when I looked forward to more than just sleeping.

Nothing

I used to think pain was better. Better than nothing. A scarecrow in the desert, waiting for something to grow. But now I guess I don’t care. So tired of pretending I’m made of bricks when my insides are nothing but straw. It’s not my intent to fool anyone, and yet I am. It’s hard to explain, but there is always this void - between me and the world. A chasm so great there’s no way to overcome it. Any kind of emotion that attempts to cross it becomes a victim of its depth. Like music that suddenly stops, the speakers emit a hum that sucks up any other sound trying to be heard.

Until there's nothing.

Just a deafening silence as I await the next song.

Starry night

I think I want to live somewhere flat. I’m tired of all these ups and down. Even the tiniest hills look impossible to climb. And the journey down the other side is always way too fast. Gravity laughing at my fear.

I have become blank, like one of my own thoughts. That infamous polar bear eating a marshmallow in a snowstorm. Memories becoming separate entities from the images that form them. Orbiting myself like a hunk of space junk, caught in a steady pull, but going nowhere. I am my own moon, always watching from high above, trapped in my own insignificance and yet forever at a distance.

And so I sit, too tired to cry, casting up my wishes for a starry night, so that I might find myself again.

Another day

Day by day living. That’s all this is anymore. The sound of rain at my window not distraction enough. My ink addiction just something to pass the time. Pretend words like pretend clouds painting on a plywood backdrop.

My fingertips miss his shoulder blades. Like etching life into a tombstone. Warm lips pressed against the skyline. So sure I’ll never be able to climb high enough. My fear of falling too great.

My nondreaming heartbeats absorbed by the unfamiliar darkness. No quickening pulse to help me sleep.

Room 504 this time

The only good thing about all this travel is that it makes him say he misses me.

Fading

I feel like fading
Away,
Dissolving, evaporating,
Molecule by molecule,
Forgetting how to feel,
Letting go of the gloom,
The darkness,
Yet not letting in the light.

I feel like fading,
Unlike these memories,
But not forgetting,
How good it can feel,
How deep it can go,
How lost I can get.

I feel like fading,
Into the colors,
Away from the presence,
Toward the nothingness.
Not erased quite yet,
Just fading slowly,
Away.

Holding on to nothing

He won’t tell me. So I pretend. That our reasons are the same, or at least close. It’s possible he can’t tell me. Because he doesn’t know. And sometimes, I must admit, I don’t know either.

How we got to here. From there.

I want to tell him, "I’m yours," thinking it might not be so obvious. Like, "I’m dreaming," or "I’m nowhere," or "I’m nothing." The games we play to guess what we already know. Like sitting in the dark, waiting for the electricity to come back on. Making up inane questions to fill the voids. Tickles of confession coughed from the back of our insecurity.

It's hard to describe what I want. Other than everything that is lacking. The sweep of warm fingers over cold skin. The stampede of anxious hours as I try to tame them. We have no future. I have no place in his past. But anything else becomes loneliness demanding my full attention.

I know who he is. On the inside. I’m not waiting for him to be someone else. I wouldn't try to dissolve the layers of emotions between us. But the emptiness keeps falling into my hands, until I am incapable of holding on to anything.

Closer

I want to say, “It just happened.” And I guess I could say that and it wouldn’t be a lie. Because it did happen. From no matter where I stand. Hard candy in a shiny wrapper I never should have touched. But now that it’s undone, I can’t put it back.

I’ve never claimed to be a good person. Thinking that tomorrow can be my friend. Never considering all the beds it has to abandon before it finds these sheets upon which to rest. As if time were not real, and life not just a train wreck waiting to happen.

Sirens in the distance, but I don’t care. Collecting pieces of a puzzle as I find them, with no idea of what the final picture is going to be.

I flirt with danger and it flirts back. Pull a pebble from a mountain and I think I’ve done no harm, but that is how it starts. Like a street with no lines down the middle to tell me what side I should be on or even which direction I should go.

It doesn't seem to matter where it starts, only where it leads. Even the softest fabric will burn my skin if I struggle against it long enough. I want to be closer, but I suspect I’m already as close as I can get.

Numbers

I was given the key to room 111.
On the way home, I took route 222 for a ways.
At 4:44, my phone rang.

I’m sure, somewhere, along the way, there were three 3s waiting for me to notice them. I feel like I have failed.

Maybe next time.

On the road again

I have to go to Baltimore, or right outside Baltimore. For work. Tomorrow. Everything these days is so work related. Survival, existence, long term plans, tomorrow. Constantly tracing the road maps under my skin. So I don’t lose my way.

I used to like my job. I don’t think I do anymore. The thought of having to get out of bed is paralyzing some mornings. Of just getting started. I secretly wish and fear, that I might die in my sleep. Curled up and warm under the covers. It never happens.

I used to like my life. I don’t think I do anymore. A broken screen door banging in the wind. Opening loudly; closing louder yet. The sounds of places I can never go to again. It's not like I’m trying. To be this way. More like pretending I know what to do. People in my life like stitches. Temporary friends that dissolve and leave me with nothing. Except a few more scars.

There are some pieces that fit. But there are so many pieces that don’t. Anymore. And it’s not like I can hide them. Sweep them under the couch. The sun shines, but I’m still shivering. Strangers with their colorless crayons, trying to draw me warm. My shoes always too loose, making me stumble no matter how slowly I run.

But life isn't pointing at me. It doesn't even know I exist. In the way stars always seem closer when the moon is full. Emphasizing how little I matter.

More empty than any bleeding heart can ever understand.

So many pieces

I told him that I thought I’d be better off alone. He replied that we all feel that way sometimes. When life hits that switch on the blender and it all turns to puree. How much simpler it would be to offer my warm problems to loneliness.

Our paths were meant to cross. I know this now. And yet sometimes it still feels like an accident. That I could have missed him, by seconds. It makes me shiver. To think about how it all comes down to the little things. The tiny pieces that make up everything. How we take them for granted. Like sunshine and raindrops. Like plants and animals. Questions waiting so patiently for their answers.

It’s funny. How sometimes he just agrees with me. So easily. How he holds the key to every lock. And how other times he has to fumble and dig. The solution to the puzzle somewhere, if only he could remember where he put it. The frustration more about his inability to understand. Eventually he comes up empty. But it doesn’t matter. It’s only one piece.

And I have so many pieces for him to try again with.

For the moment

The spontaneity needed for clothes to hit the floor. The possibility of disappointment in every touch. The threat of abandonment in every hug. The heart a lonely lab rat in the maze of every kiss. How it all feels like home no matter where I am.

I hear it in the simple songs that I can never forget. Abstract art never seen the same way twice. Strengths and weaknesses wrestling for control. And sometimes it doesn’t matter which pins the other to the mat. I count to three, but it’s not over.

Never happy

Pressing the up buttons, but I’m still going down. This elevator only seems to travel in one direction. I listen, as much as I’m able. I hear, but it’s all just whispers. Like leaves slowly budding on trees. It’s hard to tell what’s real in all this silence.

I wake up with tickles of confessions in the back of my throat. Wanting so much to follow my footprints back to the places where I’ve been. But I’m so warm under the covers. My tears soaking into the pillow. My heart still believing there will be a happy ending. White knights and sunsets and gallant steeds.

But this is not a fairy tale. My prince’s kiss will not wake me from my nightmare. My past and present conferring in secret meetings. Weighing all the options before making their decisions known. This prison called happiness. Like stairs with no steps yet still I try to climb. Because it’s not about what has happened. It’s about what never will.

Watching the cold wind carry it all away now. I have everything; I have nothing.

Holding

It comes, it goes. Like a favorite shirt that must be declared a rag. Like basic addition. One plus one equals two. And yet I still have a problem with the answer.

It’s emotions and feelings and all those things that make us who we are. It’s pain, and fear, and happiness, and sadness. It’s what makes us fragile or strong. It’s what keeps us together. It’s basic subtraction. One minus one equals zero.

Let the sleeping dog lie. Let the squeaky wheel have its grease. Let the road be paved with good intentions. Eventually it will take us home. And we can look back if we wish. There’s nothing stopping us.

Perhaps the house of cards wishes to fall. But just to be safe, I’m going to keep holding my breath.

Never enough

It’s easier to cry these days. Than to laugh or smile or nod. The sound of everything lost pressed to my ear like a seashell. But there’s no ocean. There’s just forever. The future in its torn parachute feigning flight with its fall.

Pennies heavy in my palm from a thousand misplaced wishes. Still not enough to buy anything with. Being hungry is easy. Satisfaction is the hard part. Where to go, what to eat. Everyone waiting for my decision. As the hollow spaces fill up with bad poetry. Sweeping up forgotten moments for rainy days that never come. Staring up at stars I can no longer name. Wishing this connection could be enough.

My back yard - Binghamton, NY

“Not in my back yard,” people say. No pig farms, no nuclear power plants, no shootings.

But it happened, just the other day, in my back yard.

A man, pushed too far. Teased and taunted and poked one too many times. He went over the edge and took a lot of people with him. 13 to be exact. Innocent people as they are being described. But not to him. To him they represented pain, and suffering, and the reason he went over the edge.

“Not in my back yard.”

But in my mind it was only a matter of time. So many people constant pushing, pushing, pushing.

Actions have consequences.

We pretend we know, but we don’t really. Because we keep pushing. Until someone goes over the edge. And only then do we stop. Long enough to shake our heads and feel sad for the victims and their families. For the innocent.

But never for the shooter. For the one we pushed over the edge.

Because things like this just don’t happen.

“Not in my back yard.”

I'm back

Had to do some work related traveling, but I'm back. I'll write something profound one of these days.

Closer to understanding

Telling him the opposite only makes him try harder. To prove me wrong. Only tightens that noose around the neck of his feelings. And so I let it go. Like a balloon or a dove. A lone moon burning amidst a billion stars as the ocean draws its breath from so far away.

Sometimes it feels like I am taking pictures of nothing. Recording events that have never happened. The scene existing only in my head. A curve in the road as it disappears over the horizon, like the world really does go on forever, but I’ll never be able to see it.

Tears don’t always fall. Sometimes they grow wings and fly. Carried by eager winds and thoughts never acknowledged. Shy and anonymous as they seep into the very lives they are trying so hard not to interrupt.

I’ll pretend to believe the lie if it will make him happy. Imaginary grapes on empty vines. The juicy sweetness of love in my throat, but I’m still too afraid to swallow.

Right there

They were right there. On the tip of my tongue. So eager to jump. So anxious to be on their way. Like a trapeze artist high up on that tiny platform, waiting for that big moment in the spotlight.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let them go. I held on. For dear life. And let the moment pass me by. The words have been in my throat for so long I’m used to them. Learning to breathe around them. Yet another detour. It feels like the closer I get, the longer the drive.

As much as it hurts, at least I know what it feels like. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Still going

My fault, I guess you could say. I could have stopped it at hello. Left the bed unmade so no one would want to sleep in it. Scratched my fingernails across life’s chalkboard, but they’re so short hardly anyone would have heard.

Maybe I'm just paper after all. Little scraps made by careless scissors. And now there is too much. Too many. The doorway too small for me to pass through. Tangled up in the words. In their meaning. Trying to tame my thoughts with wooden chairs and fraying whips. The roar of my heart from within its cage. I believe it’s called inertia. Why things keep going long after they should have stopped.

Balanced

Balanced, we’re so perfectly balanced right now. Or so it seems. Our feet dangling, but it’s fun. Avoiding any real contact with what’s below. Gliding over the world like children on swings.

A game, perhaps. If we were to be honest with ourselves. But we rarely ever are. Because lies can become truths if you’re not careful. Just as readily as the truth will admit it never meant what it implied. But if chosen, or stumbled upon, it becomes awkward while waiting for translation. So misunderstood in the darkness. In that fragile balance between lover and friend.

Balanced, but only because the lies keep it so.

You've never been there

If you don’t know why, then call yourself lucky. If you just can’t even comprehend how something like this can happen, then you’ve never been there. And you’re very lucky. You’ve never been pushed and pushed and pushed until you’re so close to the edge you can’t believe you haven’t gone over yet. Until every thought in your head becomes so jagged and sharp that you can only wonder why you’re still in one piece; that you haven’t torn yourself to shreds from the inside out. That you haven’t exploded, or imploded, or just burst into flames. And still people keep pushing. As if they didn’t know.

If you’ve never been there, you’ll call it madness. Insanity. You’ll blame drugs and peer pressure and the devil and rock music. You’ll wonder why no one noticed, why no one reached out. You’ll wonder why the person didn’t get help. Why they didn’t turn to Jesus, or Prozac, or their friends, or their family. Because surely that’s what you would do.

Guns, ammo, murder, suicide?

You’ll wonder. You’ll shake your head and wonder.

Because you’ve never been there. You've never even been close.

You’re lucky.

Ask yourself

So many people I work with take so many pills. Little bottles all over their desks. Constantly rattling and shaking and popping. Must take with food. Must take on an empty stomach. Some younger than me, some older. Mygod, why so many pills?

I don’t believe in doctors, not like most people do. I would never go see a doctor if I didn’t know what was wrong with me. And I would never go see one if I did, and I usually do. Because rarely is there anything wrong with me that I can’t identify. Aches and pains come and go. Always have and always will. There’s aspirin for when it gets too much. There’s hydrogen peroxide to chase the germs away. There’s soap and water to keep your hands clean. Your hands which touch almost everything.

“Eat right,” they say, but no one does. They’d rather rattle their pills. “Exercise,” they say, but no one does. Park as close as they can, take the elevator, no time, have to pick up their new pills.

Heavy, getting heavier. Lazy, getting lazier. Healthcare costs go up and everyone is whining. The price of their pills, how will they ever afford them now?

Ask your doctor if you must, but you’re the one who should know. Try asking yourself, it’s your body, treat it right. Or don’t. But stop bitching about your pills.

The words

The words long to be released and will then beg to be erased. As if the light is too bright and the shadows weren’t such a bad place after all.

Barely coherent in any language. How I'd love to give them wings. The freedom to go wherever they wish. Then there would be no need, no reason to string them together with black ink and white paper. Because my voice is going hoarse from all these repeated failures. Fingers strike random keys, but it’s not music.

Splattering them upon the walls. Knowing they will be painted over later. My best writing is always about what I cannot have. Footprints from the past trapped in dried cement.

Smearing these mistakes with my fingers, before they dry, wiping them on the back of my pants. Until it’s all a whisper. Like soft wind across my skin. Hesitant thoughts swallowing the ragged shards of their surrender.

But still they ache. The words. Still they beg.

Seven guys I’d do

Jeff Probst – The host from Survivor. Jeff is the main reason I watch this show. I think he’s incredibly hot. Jeff was born November 4th, 1962 (which makes him a few years older than me) in Wichita, Kansas, but grew up primarily in Bellevue, Washington. He likes to cook, helps babies born with AIDS and is currently divorced, I think. I’d definitely do Jeff.

Nathan Fillion – Captain Malcolm Reynolds from the television series Firefly. Nathan was born March 27, 1971 (which makes him a lot younger than me) in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. With the exception of Firefly, nothing Nathan is in ever seems to do very well. Doesn’t matter. He’s hot and I’d do him in a minute.

Robert Sean Leonard – I first saw Robert in the movie Dead Poets Society. He played the young and confused Neil Perry. What a cutie. Now he plays doctor James Wilson on House, a show I hate, but sometimes I watch it just to get a glimpse of Robert. Robert was born February 28, 1969 (which makes him a few years younger than me) in Westwood, New Jersey. He just married some professional equestrian lady. Oh well, I’d still do him. She'll get over it.

Dylan Walsh - Born Charles Walsh on November 17, 1963 (which makes him a few years older than me) in Los Angeles, California. You probably know him best as Dr. Sean McNamare from the series Nip/Tuck. He’s been married a few times, has a few kids. I just think he’s a cutie. Yeah, I’d do him.

Adrian Pasdar – Nathan Petrelli from the TV series Heroes. Adrian was born April 30, 1965 (which makes him a few months younger than me) in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. His father, Homayoon Pasdar, was an Iranian immigrant and cardiac surgeon. His mother, Rosemarie was born in Königsberg, Germany and worked as a nurse.

When he was in college, he was injured in a car accident during his freshman year. The accident left his face scarred, his legs badly injured, and kept him in a wheelchair for several months.

He can play the guitar. He has a tattoo of an anchor on his arm. He also has a tattoo of the Chinese character for Strength, which he got while filming Shanghai. I usually don’t like guys with tattoos, but I’d do Adrian.

Ronald Joseph Livingston - born June 5, 1967 (which makes him a few years younger than me) in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He’s been in a few movies (Peter in Office Space) and a few TV shows (Standoff). Nothing all that spectacular about him except that he has the look I like. Brown eyes, brown hair and looks like he just got out of bed and could use a shave. Sure, I’d do Ron.

Robert Downey Jr. – I know. I know what you’re thinking. Robert Downey Jr.? Really? Yes, Really. Born April 4, 1965 (which makes him a few months younger than me) in New York City. High school dropout, drug addict, numerous arrests for drug possession, in and out of rehab. But there’s something about him. Maybe it’s the “bad boy” thing. As long as he wore a condom, I’d do him. And probably regret it later.

Connection lost

Sometimes I’ll be at work, actually working, and a message will appear on my screen, “Your connection has been lost, attempting to reconnect.”

It’s a strange feeling. Being disconnected. I lived with it for years. Assumed I would always feel that way. Got used to it, even. Always on the outside, looking in. Always adrift, alone, reaching out but never finding anything substantial to grab a hold of. Constantly seducing shadows and ghosts and memories into remembering what it was like. To feel.

Afraid, I would never feel again.

Until one day, I connected. With someone. Instantly. And it all began to unravel. Like tugging on a hanging string of a button. I was alive, not just an empty shell. And I watched the chalk outlines around my body blow away. And I stopped trying so hard to be what I was not.

Connected. A part of something, someone. No songs to be sung to make me forget. No instruments needed other than the steady beat in my head. And so I listened. As the beautiful music spread throughout the universe.

And now my biggest fear is that my connection will be lost.

Attempting to reconnect.

New things

Last week my boombox died. It was kind of cheap when I bought it nearly 10 years ago, but it played CDs and was easy to haul around. It has played my favorite music through many a construction project. Actually, the CD part is the only part that died. The laser reader thing went. It has probably played a million CDs so I guess it was time. It also has a cassette player, but nobody has cassettes anymore. Nobody. And yes, the radio works fine, but it’s kind of a big thing to be used as just a radio, so I bought a new one. On eBay of all places. One of those “Make An Offer” deals. I offered $39 for a $49 listed one and got it. Makes me wonder now if I could have offered $29. But $39 didn’t seem too bad. The store claims it lists for $120, which isn’t true at all, but it’s fun to say I got a $120 boombox on eBay for $39.

I love places that offer tracking. It’s coming by UPS and as of this morning, it has arrived in my hometown. I dunno why, but I find it fun to track the progress of a package. All the stops it makes and the towns it goes through. As if it was a person on a bus, going home. I imagine it looking out a dirty window, watching the highway signs go flying by. Trying to estimate how far it has to go. And when it will arrive.

I like new things. I do. Technology continues to evolve which is why I wasn’t too heartbroken when my old boombox died. It was a good boombox for its time, but time has passed it by, as time does. This new one should have all the latest bells and whistles and will probably sound a million times better than my old one.

I can’t wait to go home and meet it.

Shhhh, the butterflies are sleeping

It’s just a mood, I hope, or a phase. Something I can go through, get through and then put it behind me. Like a bad movie, or a bad song. Something temporary that can be forgotten.

The butterflies – I think they are sleeping or resting. I guess everything needs to take a break. Like keeping secrets on myself. Little thoughts all folded up and tucked away. Still there, but disturbingly motionless. As I listen for words that will never be said. Wait for promises that will never be made.

If life was only about beginnings and ending, I think I could handle it a lot better. But we all know it’s not that simple. It’s the in-between that kills me. All those shades of gray bogging me down like quicksand. Scaly vines wrapping themselves around my ankles.

I just got so used to the flutter. That amusing little dance that made me feel so warm. And now the sting of disappointment burns all the way down. As I swallow this new flavor of reality.

Wounded memories

I’m holding on to these memories like a child cupping a wounded bird. Not too tight as to cause it further injury, but not too loose so it can wriggle free. It shouldn’t be flying just yet.

My shaking hands hold them near my chest, so if they vainly attempt an escape, I’ll be able to pull them closer yet. Feel the flutter of tiny wings and the frantic heartbeat of a frightened soul. It takes so much to keep them safe. To keep them from harming themselves. But even if they had the strength, I lack it to ever let them go.

Made my day

I’ve been meaning to do it for weeks. Write to Elizabeth Alexander. She’s the woman who wrote and read the poem “Praise Song for the Day” at Obama’s inauguration. It was a wonderful poem. It really was. I can’t imagine having to come up with something like that. A poem to be heard by the entire world.

Today, finally, I wrote to her, emailed. She’s a Yale professor so it wasn’t hard to find her email address. I wrote to her that I liked her poem. Short and to the point. She doesn’t know me so there really wasn’t much more to say. And then I hit send and went back to my day. Within a few minutes I had a reply. From Elizabeth Alexander herself.

“thank you very much.”

She didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t expecting a reply. But it was nice. And it made my day.

There are good people in the world. You just have to seek them out.

Progression

At first I saw it like a train. One of those tiny kinds that kids can ride. Going round and round a rickety set of tracks. The scenery the same every time. A succession of mistakes, missteps, misfortunes all gathering speed and becoming one.

And then I saw it like a Ferris wheel. Turning, stopping, lifting, dropping. The view from the top spectacular. The air soft and warm, like the fuzzy stomach of a puppy; like the velvety ears of a newborn lamb; like a down-filled pillow at the end of the day. Comfortable in an exciting kind of way.

But now I think it’s more like water or mercury or anything that can flow. Seeking out every nook and crevice. So many places to go. Like poetry. Like satiny words that go on forever. Like billowy rhymes that never stop. Wandering through a museum of my deepest emotions, a tourist, awestruck. A quiet song. A gentle touch. The slightest breeze from butterfly wings. Watching the minutes spark like matches. Each flame dying only to give life to the next.

Going in circles

When I first picked it out, I couldn’t wait to wear it. So pretty, shiny. I loved what it represented. Not alone anymore. A part of something, someone. Happy, content, complete. It just felt right.

And then, over time, it faded. Like all things do. Slightly, sadly, inevitably. Like everything does.

I took it off one day and it stayed off. For seven years. In a drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind. As everything around me faded away. And nothing felt right.

And then one day I was searching. For something. And there is was. Still pretty, still shiny. And I put it back on. To see how it would feel. To see if it would feel like it used to. And something told me it was time. To say goodbye; to say hello. To remember what was real and accept what could never be. To make things right.

Until today.

Once again the end has lead me back to the beginning.

Waiting

I think my wings are transparent enough. For me to be a swan. And strong enough, to take me away from all of this. So that I might gain a new perspective. That bird’s eye view we all crave. But I suspect the sky would dismiss me in tiny breezes. Like skipping stones across a pond. Sputtering, then gone.

Minutes turn into years when I’m made to wait like this. People I may only know for a little while and still I need proof. Monsters in damp basements, quizzing the darkness. Ghosts in stale attics, searching for their chains. The beauty of any lie is how hard it tries to protect me. Taking off my gloves to touch the glass. Only to discover it’s never been there.

Broken

The conversation went something like this:

AG: Are you close to your parents?
Me: No.

AG: Wow, that’s too bad. My parents are like everything to me.
Me: My mother emails every now and then, just fluff.

AG: Fluff?
Me: You know, the weather, stuff she did, the weather.

AG: Oh. Is your dad still alive?
Me: I guess.

AG: You don’t know?
Me: I haven’t spoken to him in over 10 years. I think my mother would have told me if he had died. Right after the weather.

AG: God, I hope so. That’s kinda sad.
Me: Yeah, everything kind of broke when I was six and never got put back together.

AG: Oh. You mean your parents got divorced?
Me: Oh, I wish.

More than ever

I’ve been listening to this radio station from New York City. I really miss NYC. I can’t remember the last time I was there. I’m not a city person, but here’s something about that city. Like running into an old friend you haven’t seen in years. I suspect I may have lived there in a past life. Maybe I grew up there, died there. Maybe I never left there. Because I had no desire to. Because it was home. And now it’s just a place I visit. And miss.

Missing someone or someplace is a strange feeling. Sometimes it’s a good feeling. And it makes you feel all warm inside. Sometimes it’s a bad feeling that makes you shiver and stomp your feet and wrap your arms around yourself. Because no one else is going to. No one that matters. No one that you miss.

Sometimes a certain place or person will remind you of another place or person. And for a moment, you’re actually there. You’re actually with them. But then something makes you snap out of it. Like a slap or a bang. Something tells you this isn’t real. And then you’re back to missing, you're back to shivering, more than ever.

I really miss him. I guess I always will. I wish there was a radio station that could trick my brain into believing. That we could run into each other on a sidewalk. So I could see him smile. Hear him laugh. That half grin that said everything was going to be alright. I wish he was in a place I could visit.

But he’s not. And so I do the best I can with memories and old photos and find little reminders of him in other people. Until I feel that slap. Or hear that bang. And something tells me this isn’t real. And then I’m back to missing him. More than ever.

Easy

It’s easier to pretend that she doesn’t exist. When he mentions her, and he always does. Or that she’s someone else. An ex, or a friend or a relative. A part of his life. A piece of the puzzle that makes him whole. But a piece that he could live without, if he had to. If it ever came to that.

It’s easier to pretend that she’ll never know. That a secret the size of the Atlantic Ocean can fit in the palm of my hand and stay there. That we could dream of forever without it having to be such a fairy tale.

It’s easier to pretend that he’s lying. When he says he’s happy. With his life with her. That he thinks it’s what I want to hear. Because it’s simpler that way. And somehow, it makes him a better person.

It’s easier to pretend I’ll be able to walk away. When all of this falls apart. That we’ll all just forgive. And forget.

Real

Not all wishes are meant to be heard by the stars. It’s not like they really care. If we confide in them or not. Some just wake up old memories; others lull them back to sleep. Like trying to give away what isn’t even mine. It’s best to just keep it folded up in my back pocket.

Different reasons for different secrets. Sometimes we’re lovers, sometimes friends. Eyes blaming each other for what we cannot say. In the way short words can be heavy on a page like that.

I brace myself for the love in his touch. But find it easier to breathe when I pretend that this just might be real.

What I get for thinking

I keep thinking that this is a good thing. Like dessert after a meal. Like watching the sunset after a long day. That’s what I’ve come to believe. That no one’s every going to get hurt. That these feelings are just little ladders that will never take me very far.

But the truth is that it’s all just lies. Little bedtime stories I tell myself at the end of the day. So I’ll be able to sleep. So I’ll be able to live with myself. Because the truth is that love is so close I could strangle it.

My impending breakdown

Sometimes I daydream old memories and imagine he was there. Next to me, his hand in mine. Through the worst and the best. Building a life together. Believing everything would be okay, and maybe it would have been. If he’d been there.

But he wasn’t, and he isn’t. And he never really can be. Like ice cubes or snow or anything that can melt or fade away.

And I'd write of this, the pain I feel, if only I could move my hand. But I’m so tired with the weight of it all. So tired with being unable to say what I need to say.

So instead, I’ll just memorize it. Learn it inside and out like a foreign language. As if my words were sparkles of color in his eyes. Commit it all to paper at a later date. To be filed away and lost with the rest of my drivel. To be found again, when I've forgotten what it was like.

No different

It’s how I used to feel. When I’d wake up, unsure of where I was. Who I was. My mouth dry, my head pounding, my stomach in knots. Hoping for just one moment, that I might die. Right then and there. Because death might at least show some mercy.

And then I’d breathe, deep, several times. Until it all came into focus. Until I could hear my heart beating and the sound of birds and life outside. Until my brain began craving the very thing that was making me hate my life. Such a vicious circle, it was. Was.

Why I thought sobriety would make life any different, I don’t know. It’s still there, no different. Worse in some ways. Circling, like vultures or hyenas. Just waiting for me to stumble. Everything sharp and jagged and edgy. Having to watch my steps, my words, my thoughts.

I reach, but there’s nothing there. Nothing that can take those edges off. Nothing soft or smooth. Everything so ragged, raw, bruised and bleeding.

It’s how I used to feel.

Is it worth it?

It’s warmer now, but I’m afraid to remove these gloves. I’m afraid to let these numb fingers feel again. Sometimes feeling hardly seems relevant, when pain is all there is. Too much for too long, like eating ice cream too fast. Maybe the headache is worth it in the long run. But the scavengers of loneliness run off with whatever pleasure there was.

This place, that place, the world - it doesn’t really matter. It’s always dark and all the same that way. I think it makes it easier, not seeing. Not knowing what isn’t there. Pretending that it might be just around the corner still.

Moments pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. Running away before I can even get up to see who’s there. Just temporary, like all good things. A mysterious blip on the radar like uncharted islands in the Bermuda triangle. Like thinking the man I dream about ever dreams about me.

Crush

His desire nuzzled against my thigh. My skin both hot and cold and anticipating. The rhythm, the rock, the waves, the crash. And I feel the warmth of the blanket and fingertips and humid breath on my neck. As we tangle and tense and release. Our hands, our hearts, our murmured exchanges. Bare feet on bare feet. Hands on hips and shoulders and grasping and stroking and finding hardness and softness. Peaks and valleys, endless sighs and moans. Darkness and light and the hint of a thunderstorm as we take and give and toss and roll. And time stands still. Just for us.

His hands, his eyes, the hair on his chest; his skin on my skin. His palm slides through the dampness that covers me like fine mist from head to toe. As his mouth takes possession of first one then the other engorged little bud. His lips, his tongue, my fingers digging into the muscles on his back as the pulse and ache and longing retreats to the shadowy places that cannot touch me here. Like the first time. So good, so full, so deep. So lost in the words rolling around in my head. Like tumbling through space and landing in pillows and silk and feather beds. A full moon splashing its magic across hollows and curves. As my thighs grip his thighs, and hands caress cheeks and shoulders, and dip and fly and hover and find any place I can to pull him closer.

He is thrust and parry and lunge and point and I surrender to the thought of belonging. A shiver, a shudder, a tremble as earthquakes fold and unfold between us, under us, around us. The tumbling, rumbling, numbing kind that spread out in all directions. As hands clench and grab and pull. As hips pitch and roll and ride the swell of the moment. The smell of rain on hot pavement and musk and honey as the room spins and tips and swings. Like a pendulum. Back and forth and I can’t help but watch and feel and think that I will soon be hypnotized by the movement. As muscles tighten and flex and strain and let go and we both believe whatever it is we are going to believe. About each other and this moment; our clothes in a careless pile on the floor. Soft secrets no longer hidden.

Then all is quiet and still and slack, his weight upon me. The stubble of his cheek against my neck. A breeze through the cotton curtains. Across wet skin and passion and the pull of slumber. My one hand stroking the damp curls at the base of his next. Breath steadied, bottom lip parted, he is nothing now if not a little boy in repose. My other hand on the small of his back. Marking X on a map. Blazing a trail across a landscape of rolling hills and dales.

How I never tire of basking in this warm crush of affection.

Everyone dies

Count back three rows. See the woman on the left holding a baby? That baby is my grandmother. All those other people are relatives of some kind. Distant relatives, but still relatives. And most of them, probably all of them, are dead. Because everyone dies. (Click on the photo to see everyone.)

My grandmother died last year, in May. She was 90.

When I was a kid, a little kid, I lived with her and my grandfather for awhile. They had a dairy farm and some sheep and a few pigs. Chickens, dogs and cats. No horses because my grandfather didn’t like horses. I loved the barn. I loved the smell of the hay and the cows. I loved finding kittens everywhere.

My grandfather died in 1983. My grandmother lived pretty much alone on the farm up until a few months before she died. I say pretty much because my one uncle, her youngest son, lived with her for awhile and when he got married, him and his wife built a house on the property. And when they had a child, grandmother got to babysit.

She never learned to drive. She could grow and can almost anything. She was very smart. She was rarely ever sick. She married my grandfather at age 16 and never even considered getting married again. He was her one true love. From 1983 until 2007, she spent her days thinking about him, waiting for the day when she would see him again. Grandma believed in heaven and all that and I’d like to think that she and grandpa are back together again.

In 2004, grandma started to get old. She said to me once, “Don’t ever get old.” She started falling, couldn’t do stairs very well, had trouble reaching for things. She broke a few bones in some falls, but she came back. I wouldn’t say she bounced back, but she came back and stayed in her home until home alone wasn’t safe anymore.

In 2007 my uncle put my grandmother in an old folk’s home. It wasn’t a bad place, but it was sad. She didn’t like it there. She had no friends. I visited her a few times, but it killed me to see her there. She kept saying, “I just want to go back home.”

In December of that year, my aunt and uncle took her back home for Christmas. I didn’t go. I could have, but I didn’t. The old farm just wasn’t what it used to be. The house had grown old, like grandma. The barn was starting to fall down. My aunt liked horses and there were horses everywhere. Horses in the bottom of my grandfather’s barn. Where the cows used to be.

In February I paid one last visit to my Grandmother. Her once sharp mind was starting to go. She still hated the home and the people and the fact that she was old. When I went to leave I hugged her, told her I loved her and knew I would never see her again.

In April, pneumonia spread throughout the home. A visitor had brought it in. Many of the residents got sick including my grandmother. She was a tough old lady and hated hospitals, but she was very sick and knew she had to go.

She stayed in the hospital for three days. I’m glad it was only three days. My aunt and uncle and cousin were with her. She didn’t die alone. But she died. Everyone dies. She was old and tired and the pneumonia offered her a way out. It was time. I’d like to think my grandfather was there. That he helped her out of bed and up the stairs to heaven. That her legs were strong and her mind was sharp and that she didn’t feel old anymore.

I thought about my grandmother this morning. As I was making the bed and getting ready for work; memories of being a kid on the farm popped into my head. The smell of the farm, grandma in the kitchen baking cookies. Somehow there were always cookies. I thought about her and how tough life must have been. How I should have visited more often.

“Everyone is always so busy,” she used to say. Because everyone was. Too busy to visit, too busy to call.

90 years seems like a long time until someone dies.

This morning it finally hit me. My grandmother is gone.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell or any of that crazy stuff, but grandma did and if the afterlife is nothing more than what we believe, then that is where she is. Back home on the farm. The way it looked when I was a kid. And my grandfather is haying the fields. And grandma is young and strong and in the kitchen. Baking cookies for when the grandkids come to visit.

In the afterlife, I hope I visit grandma a lot more.

The hard part

Too many steps or not enough. Either way I can’t get there. Not from here. It’s not what’s absent that makes the wolves howl at the hole in my heart. It’s not what’s missing or lost. It’s what gets left behind. It’s what never goes away.

The problem is that I’m always so ready to lose. Always prepared for that screeching halt, for the sound of breaking glass. Always so unprepared to win, whatever the prize might be, that I nearly trip right over it.

So sure I have nothing to share, nothing to give. Just plenty to sacrifice. It's easy to find someone to love. The hard part is in finding someone who can love you back.

Pretending

“Until you get bored with me,” he says. And I assure him that will never happen. Because I know that’s what he wants to hear. And because for the moment, it’s true. My head on his chest, hearing his heart beat. Love’s pendulum reciting its poetry just for me. A little blush to go with my whisper.

I pretend we know each other better than we do. Covering up the yawns of who I once was. His smile is his only betrayal as the silence considers what's next for us. Harmless little monsters that life has pulled from our weaknesses. Puddles losing battle with the sun.

He pretends to be more into me than he is. As if his life isn’t the only thing he can't control. The future isn't ahead of us. It's right here. In every touch that only makes me want more.

Scattered memories

Time just keeps pushing its way through that swinging door. I’m not even trying to stop it anymore. It seems kind of pointless anyway. Thinking I can pile enough memories in the doorway to keep it from leaving. But memories are pretty light and not the best things for making barricades with. And if time really wants to leave, all it has to do it flap its wings, and I’ll spend days picking up all those scattered memories.

Waiting

Hollow, empty, like a bottomless well that someone has just tossed a rock into. Waiting for the sound of it hitting something, but there will be no sound. Like that long drive home that seems to take forever, until I am home. And then it’s like the drive never happened.

These are just feelings, just emotions. Everyone has them. Dangled like a plastic carrot in front of me. My stomach only growls because it doesn't know any better.

Just memories

Moments. That's what life is really all about. You know you're always going to remember certain events. Like the time you went to the animal shelter to pick out a kitten. Like the time you dislocated your shoulder when you were five and sat in the emergency room for half the night. Like the day your best friend drowned. And the day you graduated high school without him.

But you never really know, as you're living these moments, which ones you will recall so vividly years later. So clearly that if you could go back in time, you’d be right there again. In an instant. For just a few seconds. Feeling how cold the air was. Smelling the odor of stale cigarettes. Hearing the voices of people you haven't seen in years.

And you can't help but wonder why. Why you remember one particular moment out of so many others just like it. Why you remember sitting on the edge of your bed, listing to a new Pink Floyd album. Why you remember your fifth grade teacher telling stories about the war . Why you have such a vivid recollection of walking to a certain place on a certain day and remembering what the weather was like, what the sky was like, how much money was in your pocket. Even what shoes you were wearing.

Because it's not as though you consciously choose to remember these particular moments and throw out others. Others that are equally commonplace and ordinary. No. It's as if your brain held a contest, and certain snapshots of your life won the right to hang out in your head forever. Your grandmother sitting on the front porch, shelling peas just picked from the garden. The spot where you parked your car, so it would leak oil all over your parents driveway. Sneaking Vodka in to a Adam Ant rock concert. And oddly enough, these aren’t even memories that make you happy or sad when they pop into your head. They are just memories about nothing in particular. Just proof that you have lived.

Just memories of an ordinary life.

The words

Just to touch him makes me poetic, lyrical. As he looks at me with that expression: “What?” And I start thinking of ways to answer with lines from songs. Because anything I could put on paper wouldn’t be enough. I need strings and horns, a chorus, a drumbeat in the background.

On days like this, with the sun so bright that I can count every freckle on his shoulder. And my palms sweat with the need to just hold everything so perfectly still. To make some kind of permanence with poetry or music. To write about childhood and the truth behind lollipops and balloons tied to your wrist. That there’s no reason to cry if they free themselves and drift away. But anything I could say would come out backwards. Words would chase their tails like neurotic dogs. And so I smile and watch him breathe and touch his cheek with my fingertips. His eyes like tide pools slowly evaporating in the sun and I can’t help but wonder what will become trapped in them.

How I want to peel away the years; chase our future and other cherished things down deserted beaches and through hoops of summer that never end. And then I kiss him like I need him, like I want him, like a child, pure and desperate and unfocused. An inevitable tide, stealing the shore and his breath. As we slowly bend, like light, like music, like a rainbow. Blurred in desire and colors, refracting light, like a dream. Like a metronome: breathing, clutching, rocking, fucking. I try to count the notes.

And suddenly I have no trouble finding my line. “IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.” The words dripping like sweat, falling like raindrops. But they are lyrics that can never be written; chords that can never be played. And I reach for the sound with anxious hands, knowing it will float away. Like that balloon from childhood. The knot in the string just not tight enough.

Later, we breathe in rhythm to the quiet music in our heads. A blanket over our cooling bodies, sprawled out like starfish. And I watch the setting sun try to paint his face the color of rose petals. My fingers on his cheek, imaging I can feel the thorns.

I sigh, content, and listen to the music, and to the words I now know by heart.

When no one is looking

Sliding into my shoes at 7 a.m. There was a time when my day was half over by then. But now even the thought of that is terrifying. 7:30 some mornings, and even that is hard. Trying to stay warm and tight. Inside my quiet mind. The island of me the way I’d live forever if I could.

Because once I’m up it all fades. Just another commuter without a pen. No way to capture life as it goes whirring by. Jotting down mental notes on the back of my hand, but they’ll be gone by the time I get there. My life story unfolds too quickly and suddenly I’m beginning a new day the same way yesterday ended. With too much to do and time so fleeting. Monotony consuming all the oxygen in the room until I fear I may really die this time. Closing my eyes. Drifting into a world of black and white. That awaiting train wreck of imagination pushes my hand towards the paper. Patiently waiting dreams become my reality as routine takes a back seat and buckles up.

Yes, once upon a time there was a girl and she worked hard for a living, but when no one was looking, she could turn paper into a garden and her pen would plant all sorts of seeds. Stories and tales that would grow and bloom and take her away. Like Jack and that mighty beanstalk. A way out. A way up. To somewhere else. To anywhere, but here.

Is everything about who you know?

If you’ve ever seen the movie The Basketball Diaries, then you know who Jim Carroll is. If you’ve ever heard the song "People Who Died", then you know who Jim Carroll is. He has a website CatholicBoy.com where you can see photos of the guy, if you’d like, although most of the links don’t work because the site is being updated.

Jim Carroll was born in New York City in 1950. As a teenager, Jim did two things – heroin and poetry. As a teenager, I did the same two things, or maybe I should say that I tried heroin. I tried a lot of things. But I did write a ton of poetry. Some of it I still have. At age 16, Jim managed to get published. This is where the similarities between Jim and I stop. Maybe if I had done more heroin, I’d be a published too. But I doubt it. Heroin was awesome, I must admit, but it also scared the shit out of me. That feeling that everything was perfect and wonderful in the world. Somewhere in the back of my head I knew it wasn’t true.

I have read many of Jim’s poems. No offense, Jim, but they are nothing special. I’m not saying they are bad, but they aren’t great. I read much better stuff here on Blogger all the time. Stuff by people who aren’t published and probably never will be. Because being recognized by someone who can get you published is hard. It’s damn hard. I've been trying for years. So how did he do it? How did some Catholic school, basketball playing, heroin shooting, mediocre poet kid get published? How did he get such a following?

It’s not his looks. It’s not his music. It’s not his poetry.

According to his website, some guy named Ted Berrigan helped him out a little when he was young. Is it who you know? Is everything about who you know?

If it is, then that makes me feel a little better for some reason. It means I could be the best poet in the entire world, but because I never met the right person when I was high or coming down or sober, no one will ever be ordering my used paperbacks through Amazon. Mine or any of the other fantastic poets that I read here on the net. Instead, they’ll be ordering Jim Carroll’s. Because Jim was in the right place at the right time. Because Jim met someone.

I write because I like to write. Because some days it’s all I know. My escape from life in the form of metaphor. So the world can hear me cry without having to shed a tear. I don’t need to be published, but when I read the likes of Jim Carroll, I can’t help but say to myself, “My stuff is better than his.”

Tomorrow's dream

It is not quite tomorrow and we are on a beach, under a blanket and over indulging. On the waves. On the stars. On the sand. On each other. Our voices muted, but for no real reason. We are alone. We could scream, if we wanted to. If there was reason to.

You are singing backup to the night sky, a bottle of beer in the sand. Constantly glancing at the ocean and the parade of stars above. So stunning. Life dancing in harmony like this. The wind in my hair and my toes buried in the warm sand. You comment that your beer tastes like forever. And I try to remember what that is like.

The waves toss and tumble and we lose all track of time. There is passion burning in your eyes. We raise invisible glasses and toast to “nights like these” and I comment that the wind smells like forever. And you agree, even though I know you are not listening. Not to me. But I don’t mind because you are here and that is all I really need,

On our backs, pretending to pluck stars from the sky, like strawberries. You hand me yours and say I should eat them now. Before they spoil. I laugh, but not at your joke. I laugh at the time that has passed and can never find us again. At least not here.

I feel your hand on mine. Searching, finding. Whatever it is you seek. And you say you shouldn’t fall asleep, not out here under our star-crossed tomorrow. And I say that it’s okay, go ahead. I have made an agreement with sun, not to rise. Not today.

Consumed - Part 2

Kissing that velvety soft skin beneath his ear, I hear him exhale and feel his body relax. So many times in my dreams, I imagined this, but the reality of his skin is so much softer against my lips. The angle of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the valley that leads to his shoulder and across the bridge of his collar bone. I stop and his eyes seek mine. The entrance to a secret world, so deep, so rich in potential, in danger. His hand gliding across my hip is his gift and in return, my tongue forgets any language but this. But this.

I kiss his stomach and feel him twitch, like the trembling air just before it thunders. And the scent of him grows stronger and my mind and my mouth wander and his legs stretch like an endless highway through the desert. I close my eyes and stoke the smooth skin of his inner thigh and I am at once everywhere and nowhere. I am exactly where I want to be. Always and forever. I feel the impending thunder under my fingertips and the smell of sudden rain on hot pavement and my thirst overwhelms me. I drink my fill of him, with irrepressible sighs in the background. Like the echoe of distant thunder. This is home; the flavor of the earth and all things that grow, strong and sweet, the deep pull of herbs and spices and ripening citrus fruit. I want to drown, to be buried here, with his strong shoulders holding back the world, his hands tangled like wild rose vines in my hair, the rhetoric of kiss and lick unleashing his hidden desires.

This is how I want to die. Happy. That at last I am allowed to love someone. For now.

Until I got too cold

I left him for dead and most likely he was. Most likely he was gone at that point. But I’ll never really know for sure. I’ll never really know if there’s something I could have done. Other than run and hide and pretend. That everything was going to be okay.

I left him for dead and ran and hid and pretended. Until it got too dark. Until I got too cold. Until there was nothing I could do. But go home. Alone.

I left him for dead and all the poetry in the world can’t change the past.

Consumed - Part 1

He’s all I can think about; as he pulls me close. The feel of his warm hips and thighs, pressed against the coolness of mine; the scent of his clothes and skin. His mouth desperate and endless, his lips hungry at my neck.

It’s the way he almost needs to hold me, to keep me in his arms, like belief, like faith, like life and death, to mold his body around mine, to heal me, my heart so fragile with hope. The pain untangles itself, with my head against his chest, helping me to forget. And as I turn my face upwards, into the waterfall of his kisses, this becomes everything. This is everything. The gentle touch of his lips like summer rain, and as our mouths meet, I imagine this is what some might call heaven, like the whispered sound of his name.

I remember

Sometimes I forget. That there was a time when it wasn’t like this. That there was a time when I was whole. That half of me wasn’t ashes that are probably sitting on a shelf somewhere. Never picked up because it just hurt too much.

Sometimes I forget. That there was a time when I thought it would always be like this. The two of us like puzzle pieces. Fitting so perfectly that few people knew. That apart we were nothing. But pieces.

Sometimes I forget. That I can never forget.

Inching

Inching forward. So certain there is no place to go, yet we seem to be progressing. Toward what? Well, that’s the mystery. That’s the question neither one of us dares to ask.

Because the answer might be the end of everything. Not just life. Not just love. But everything. Everything we thought could never happen.

Inching forward. So slowly it doesn’t even feel like we are moving at all. But we are. Despite all the anchors in our lives, we drift just a little each time we are together. We drift just a little bit closer. But closer to what? Well, that’s the mystery. That’s the question neither one of us dares to ask.

Perfect moment

I was with the one person in the world that I wanted to be with. And the wind was blowing through my hair. And this song started playing that described my entire soul so perfectly. And that one person that I wanted to be with commented on the song, how it was one of his favorites. And then it hit me, that we were sitting there, in the park, listening to it together. Together. That we were together.

And I started thinking, that no matter how crazy my life might get, I would always have this moment. This perfect moment. Where I could just say that no matter what happens, nothing can take this moment away from me...

Except for, perhaps, another perfect moment.

Funny

Like the wink from a dying man with secrets to tell. It’s funny. It’s funny how life constantly changes. The last minute funerals that all moments tend to become. I wonder sometimes, how people can plan for anything? Those little raindrops of surprise always tapping on the window with such calm regret. The rising sun, like paint thinner through the slats in my blinds, washing away the colors until everything is blinding white.

My thoughts today, like weary sailors landing on the Plymouth of hope; naive enough to think the location could make a difference. Always trying to escape the pain, the past. Like shirts I’ll never wear again because they just send the ghosts into fits of laughter. Redrawing all these maps I thought I’d finished. Close enough to the eclipse to go blind, but oh, so thankful I had the chance to see it. Because I wouldn’t have missed any of this for the world.

Yeah, it’s funny. Like painting yourself into a corner. Like being up a creek without a paddle. Like water, water everywhere, yet you’re dying of thirst.

I say I understand, but I never really will. Stepping off that spinning wheel. The hideous pottery of circumstance flying everywhere. My heart comes out of the kiln breakable, but not broken this time. I say I’m okay because that's what people want to hear. I say I'm okay, because hell, for all I know, maybe I really am.

My creation

I searched his music for cues, for some kind of indication. That I should stay where I am, on this safe side of the line. I scanned my memories for hints as to what might come next. As to what will cause this line in the sand to shift and shudder and widen. Like the yawn of a canyon discovering itself. Like a glass vase sitting too close to the edge, the smash and shatter only a matter of time.

But I could find nothing. No reason that I shouldn’t step over now, before the truth decides to break the surface. Before I discover just how far into someone else’s garden I’ve wandered. Pretty flowers eager to be picked. Petals to be scattered to the wind. My life torn open like an envelope. And the contents not at all what I expected.

It’s not like I haven’t been keeping track of my sand castles. Measuring every new ripple as it appears. As an anxious tide keeps pushing me closer. To that line. It’s not like the music is ever going to change my mind.

Yet there's a world under my feet and this world I’ve yet to discover. There are traces of both heaven and a hell simmering in my decision. A bet, a hope, a trust, that love won't betray me this time.

In conversations with my future self, I argue that I always wait too long. That I hem and haw like a shy child until I’m devoured by my own innocence. That all the songs and signs in the world might not mean a thing. That I should just grow up already. Admit that I created this situation. That I carefully selected just the right individual to make it hurt all the better.

Willpower

Willpower. I’m going to call it willpower. The fact that he can go 24, 48, even longer than that sometimes without contacting me. Because he said he thinks about me all the time. Which means he’s thinking about me now. Just like I’m thinking about him. Wondering what he’s doing. Who he’s with. Why he isn’t at the very least calling me.

I know it’s because he can’t sometimes, much of the time. There are factors which prevent it. There are conditions, stipulations. And so it must be killing him. To not pick up the phone and call me. Just to hear my voice. Just to let me know he’s thinking of me. Willpower.

44

It was all the little things. Holding hands in the car. The music picked out special. It was all the little touches and hugs and kisses. It was the looks and smiles and the words. It was the conversation. From one topic to the next and then back again. It was the dancing and swaying and the sharing of body heat in the cold room. It was the promises and confessions and admissions. It was the unhurriedness of it all. Like we had forever. Like it could always be like this.

It was the best birthday ever.

Another day

A day used to be just another day. Another hurdle on this longest road. A day used to be something I had to face, get through, get over. Now every day is an opportunity. A chance. That he might call. That I might see him.

I hate that life has come to this.

I hate that my happiness, or lack of, has become so dependent on him. On a chance to see him. Touch him. Have him.

Although the time we spend together is incomparable. To anything. The time we spend together makes this longest road not matter. How long it is. Because when I’m with him, I just don’t care. How far I’ve yet to go.

Until he leaves. Me. And then it’s all I can think about. This world that is not my home. This world that I keep on pause so it will always be here, just like he left it. Just like he left me. As that longest road becomes even longer.

Another day. Another chance to see him. Touch him. Have him.

First kiss

"Stay... please." She almost dropped to her knees in reaction to the way those two words clutched at her heart.

She walked back to the couch - slowly, carefully - as if her actions might cause him to change his mind. His outstretched hand never wavered. His eyes never left hers. Large eyes, glistening, melting her from the inside - his gaze was what pulled her step by step, until she was once again sitting on the couch beside him. Her hand now in his. So warm. So strong.

She opened her mouth, but could not form any words. Her hand was quivering, cold, a little clammy. Nerves. She was nervous. So was he. They remained frozen in place, holding hands, eyes locked on each other. The silence in the room grew thick and tense; both of them afraid to speak, afraid the moment would be lost in verbalization; fearing that talk would kill the spontaneity.

Then he smiled. And a sudden warmth broke over her, like the sun, banishing the doubt, eradicating any worry that she was reading too much into his gesture, or too little. He smiled - for the first time that day - and her heart pounded as he leaned in and gently kissed her.

For now

Sometimes it’s good. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s beyond good. Sometimes it’s indescribable. Like trying to pull orange from amber; like trying to coax red from crimson. Content with just knowing I can do it.

It’s that look, more than anything. That look that compels me to reach for the stars. That turns all my pain into poetry; that sees beyond my fears. It’s that look that chases away all my doubts. They will return, of course, like they always do. Timid mice peeking through the cracks of life, hoping the coast is clear. But for now I have a place to fall. A shoulder to touch and cry on. For now I have a place to keep my secrets.

Star light, star bright

The future so predictably uncertain. Love and friendship arguing over their boundaries. Hearts and minds testing their limits. I wish, just for once, I could be happy with how things are instead of imagining what's better yet. Just appreciate what I have rather than wondering how long it will last.

Memories cling like the smell of fresh coffee. I know I’m not the only one who remembers, but I always seem to be the one holding the empty cup. The scent of its former contents filling my senses. I don't want it, but there it is, warm in my hands, hinting of what's been drained from it, daring me to take another sip.

And seriously, I’ve come this far, what’s one more step? My universe may be small compared to some, but there is plenty of room here. So many stars, too few moons, like the night knows how strong it is and uses its knowledge against me.

Sometimes sound is useless for communication. Spoken words are nothing but naked letters, helpless and exposed. And they will only say what I tell them to.

The softness

His voice is so gentle, like feathers on my skin. As if the idea of pain and bruising is not possible. As if everything has shifted for just a moment; a hiccup in the rotation of the earth. No reason for ever looking back. Only forward. From this moment.

So many words shared, but unspoken. So many feelings merging into one. It is so easy to get lost in the softness of the moment. Like the fuzzy stomach of a kitten, like the velvety ears of a newborn lamb, like a down-filled pillow at the end of the day.

I had almost forgotten about the yearning. I had almost forgotten how it feels when the world stops turning. Ever so quietly.

“I missed you,” he whispered into my ear. And life became softer still.

Safe

I know it’s all in my head. Mostly. These things I feel, or don’t feel. I know a lot of this is just imagined. Just ghosts from my past that convince me I’m not worthy. Of anyone’s attention. Of being the center of anyone’s dreams.

I lose myself sometimes, in the illusion. That things aren’t what they seem. That the words I hear are real. That growing wings might allow me to fly, rather than fall that much further.

It's really just a trade off, one bad habit replacing the next. Out of the fire only to find myself on thin ice. Righting all my dominoes only to have them fall all over again. Sometimes these moments are like smiling children in blurry photographs. So unaware of the world and how much it will take from them. Like the irony of flightless birds or fish that must come to the surface for air. Maybe it’s just the anguish of the universe. That it can never subtract. It has to keep expanding until every last one of us is alone. But until then, I think I might be safe.

I hate winter

Snuffing out thoughts with every heavy sigh. Wondering if anyone can hear any of the words I haven’t said. Wondering if I’ll ever be enough for anyone. Sifting through every moment in a search for lost glitters of gold, cold junkets of love in the blowing snow. Knowing they exist just makes me more determined to find them. There will never be time enough to remember everything, but I think I still know what’s real. Memories chasing themselves like a string of old Christmas lights. A temporary bridge that burns and leaves me stranded. I skip through these moods like songs in an old juke box because none of them ever feel right.

Some cocoons bring forth a creature so beautifully changed, while others lay forever dormant.

Perhaps it’s just the bitter taste of winter and the endless reach of want that makes me feel this way.

Wishes

Blinding headlights in my rearview mirror. Sometimes I wish the driver would fall asleep or lose control. That the big rig would just run me down. Like a bug under the foot of a pissed off giant. No airbags could save me from that.

Sometimes I wish the bridge would fall. Collapse. As I roll across it. Angry chunks of concrete and twisted steel making sure I disappear into the raging hell below. Just disappear. The idea so appealing. Because I suspect once you officially vanish for good, you can’t come back. Not even if enough people wish it. Because wishes aren’t like horses. They don’t run off and wait to be found.

Sometimes I wish I’d never decided to try life sober. Because I’m not very good at it.

Everything

He could be my everything. That’s the real problem. That and the fact that he has no interest in such an idea. No interest in me half the time. Or so it feels. Despite what he says. Despite what he tells me. It’s all those actions or lack there of that speak louder than his words.

So close sometimes. Closer than I’ve ever been to anyone. And yet we know so little about each other. We share so little about ourselves. Our pasts could be twins, and yet we never talk. Not about anything that matters. Because we’re afraid. For different reasons but, afraid none the less. Like children. Like ghosts. Like shadows.

I wait. I worry. I wonder. Why he acts the way he does. Why my heart beats the way it does. Why he has to be the one. My everything.