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 remember changing my calendar over to May, and smiling tired at the face of the new month as it smiled back at me, standing in the 6:26 morning light without sleep and looking askance at the picture of myself in the long mirror on the door, where a handle should be. I thought, here it is: one constant in a world of uncertain things, this still familiar picture on my wall.
Two days later I couldn’t remember what the picture was, anymore. I locked the front door on my way in and flipped on the light to find April, solidly, looking back.
I tried to remember if I had been dreaming, but I didn’t remember having slept, so- what was there left to do? I went to the wall and put April on its end, looking up (again) at (another) familiar face. There was nothing else I could do- so I left it staring back at me, and I wondered- what else have I been imagining?
Most alive in my heart, most loud in my head,
I cannot bury you; you are un-dead
There are 20 minutes left in this day, and I’m ready not to think anymore.
All I want to do- were I unhampered by all these pressing eyes- is to sit and think, staring at nothing in particular, about your face. I wonder how it’s changed since you’ve been gone? I say that you’ve been gone because you left, even though it was more of a literal inevitability than a gesture of abandonment. It didn’t feel any better.
15 minutes left. Continue reading “Minutes”
*(I didn’t say no)
I was so, so hungry
and it was such a good drug for the pain
of carrying you on my sleeve;
because it was too good to be real,
too old to be new, a familiar habit-
Because I saw it coming and it was still a surprise,
Continue reading “Excuses”
I wished it was over as soon as it began. I wondered vaguely what I had wanted, what the disconnection was between what my head wanted and what my body clearly could do without.
I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t care if I finished, because I’d rather he just end it so I could go home and sleep. Maybe I just liked knowing someone wanted me- because the sweat, the pain, and the awkward recognition of fakery in my own voice I could do without. I didn’t bother to fix any of it because I didn’t really care. Continue reading “Casual”