In Galway gone, an age ago
where crumbling stones did meet the sea,
I walked where lonely mists did blow,
and in the shadows found I thee
Cathedral bells in darkness rung
and echoed down the slick night street;
no friendly footsteps on stones sung
among the kiss of falling sleep
But in my cold and naked palm
which scraped upon the mossy stones,
I felt the whisper of your psalm-
in empty hand, I held your own
I don’t think it’s love that’s a lie, but maybe the way that we tell it. What are the odds of happiness, anyway? The American Dream seems statistically unlikely, when you think about it.
When I left you I thought it was, in a word, impossible. Impossible to have happened, impossible to live with. Even leaving halfway across the world didn’t seem quite far enough to make you Gone. What followed was a year that didn’t feel real; twelve months in someone else’s job, reminding myself that this suspended foreign reality was temporary, and that I would go home and go on with my life because there were no other choices, even if you wouldn’t be there anymore. I opened the cracked window above my head that slanted over the roof of my little blue room up in the mossy, cloudy spires of Somewhere New, and I thought about my choices. London lay in stone before me- infinite possibility still so limited by time and money and energy. By me. I hadn’t slept in months, between the best and the worst of the last year, and I couldn’t sleep then.
Continue reading “Impossible Odds”
I covered my eyes to see you better,
covered my mouth to
keep a peace-
unrolled understanding like
a carpet on your stones,
kissing corners just to bring in
a little light
I risked my shame for greatness,
hoping you would do the same-
I wrote you in songs, and stories and poems to keep
your sacred silence in tact
Continue reading “Things I Have Done”
“I’m just tired of living like a fucking nomad.”
I stopped trying to shove yesterday’s jeans into my work purse and exhaled frustration. He had lent me sweatpants again; because I had slept over again, because we saw each other post 9pm again, because it was the only time we could get together and I felt guilty if I only stayed an hour. Again.
“You can keep some stuff here, you know” he said, in the same way he always did.
“I know. But then I wouldn’t have it at home. I just hate carrying everything back and forth all the time, it drives me nuts.”
I just want to go home, hang up my sweater where it won’t get wrinkled, put my underwear in the laundry where it will stay and not revisit the same bra again six hours after I take it off. I just want to go home. Continue reading “Before the Break(up)”