I almost never think of you at all anymore, but, for some reason, you're on my mind right now.
Maybe it's the fact that I was in your neighborhood today. On the train, and then, on the bus, I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for you to materialize out of nowhere. It made me nervous. What if you were angry about the way I stopped responding to your calls, your emails, your texts. What if you glared at me? Or worse yet, what if you looked at me with sadness or remorse -- the same forlorn, lost look that spoke to me in the first place? Here's the funny thing -- I know I did nothing wrong. Turnabout is fair play, and I did nothing to you that you didn't do to me first, worse. So you have no right to make me feel this way.
Or maybe it was because of the hurricane brewing out at sea. Remember our hurricane, the one that almost ruined our second date? Instead, we just sat inside and talked and talked and talked. I wonder if it would have turned out differently if we hadn't been stuck inside together for all those hours at the very beginning. Would my guard have stayed up longer -- long enough to keep you from worming your way in, pretending you were something I needed, and then running away?
I know it's over, way over. And today, these thoughts of you were just a momentary detour, a quick glance back in my rearview mirror. Next time I look up, they'll be even further behind me.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Solstice
You and I, we've reached our solstice. I am finally at the furthest distance out of your orbit. Can I resist the gravitational pull?
I'm getting stronger, day by day. I need you less, I want you less.
I've been waiting for this moment. I haven't felt this alive in ages. It's as if the blood had stopped, but now, it's pouring back, like a dam has broken.
I went outside in the dead of night to stare at the eclipse. It was freezing, and even in the middle of downtown, breathtakingly quiet. The moon was blood red.
It's funny that the longest, darkest night is also the brightest.
I'm getting stronger, day by day. I need you less, I want you less.
I've been waiting for this moment. I haven't felt this alive in ages. It's as if the blood had stopped, but now, it's pouring back, like a dam has broken.
I went outside in the dead of night to stare at the eclipse. It was freezing, and even in the middle of downtown, breathtakingly quiet. The moon was blood red.
It's funny that the longest, darkest night is also the brightest.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Deep End
(Also posted at IndieInk, December 2010.)
It was hot and we were restless. We roamed around, looking for trouble. The swimming pool caught his eye. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in that direction.
“It’s been closed for hours. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Not if we’re quiet.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
He looked at me with a wicked grin.
“Or towels.”
He shrugged, and then took off his clothes and jumped in. I hesitated, but then stripped down to my bra and panties. “Really?” he laughed, and then splashed me. I jumped in the deep end.
The water was refreshing at first, still slightly warm from the day’s sun. I floated aimlessly on my back, lost in thought, while he swam up and down the length of the pool. Occasionally I would steal a glance at his muscular arms.
We stayed in the pool for a long time, too long. My teeth started chattering; my body shivered. He noticed and came up to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. I had never noticed how strong he was, how warm he was, before that moment. He kissed my neck and shoulder; I lay my head against his chest, and time stopped. I didn’t want to be the one to end the magic.
Finally, without words, he grabbed my hand and led the way out of the water, to the locker room, all the way to the back to the showers. He turned the hot water on, and held me up against the wall, kissing me, more and more aggressively. I could feel the cool tile pressing into my back. I held on to him tightly, not because I thought he’d drop me, but because I wanted to stay in that embrace and melt into him. “This is what letting go feels like,” I thought to myself.
All these years later, on hot nights when I can't sleep, this is the memory that fills my head. I wonder where he is now, what he is doing. I wonder if he's lying awake somewhere, feeling the heat, remembering. I hope it's one of those things he can't forget either.
It was hot and we were restless. We roamed around, looking for trouble. The swimming pool caught his eye. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in that direction.
“It’s been closed for hours. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Not if we’re quiet.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
He looked at me with a wicked grin.
“Or towels.”
He shrugged, and then took off his clothes and jumped in. I hesitated, but then stripped down to my bra and panties. “Really?” he laughed, and then splashed me. I jumped in the deep end.
The water was refreshing at first, still slightly warm from the day’s sun. I floated aimlessly on my back, lost in thought, while he swam up and down the length of the pool. Occasionally I would steal a glance at his muscular arms.
We stayed in the pool for a long time, too long. My teeth started chattering; my body shivered. He noticed and came up to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. I had never noticed how strong he was, how warm he was, before that moment. He kissed my neck and shoulder; I lay my head against his chest, and time stopped. I didn’t want to be the one to end the magic.
Finally, without words, he grabbed my hand and led the way out of the water, to the locker room, all the way to the back to the showers. He turned the hot water on, and held me up against the wall, kissing me, more and more aggressively. I could feel the cool tile pressing into my back. I held on to him tightly, not because I thought he’d drop me, but because I wanted to stay in that embrace and melt into him. “This is what letting go feels like,” I thought to myself.
All these years later, on hot nights when I can't sleep, this is the memory that fills my head. I wonder where he is now, what he is doing. I wonder if he's lying awake somewhere, feeling the heat, remembering. I hope it's one of those things he can't forget either.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Sleeping In
(Also posted at IndieInk, July 2011.)
I lingered in bed this morning because of the holiday. I reflexively reached my hand across to the other side, forgetting that you're not there anymore. Remember all the hours we spent here? Do you think about it at all? For me, on days like this, it's like you never left. Your ghost lingers -- the ghost of us lingers. It haunts me.
I was never entirely sure that I loved you until the day you left. I suspected, but I was never certain until that instant. Maybe it's because I only really love things that are too broken to salvage, like the furniture I insist on rescuing from my neighbors' trash or the ratty old sweater that my mom wore when I was a kid. I see the most beauty in the imperfections and the history that they represent. And so, only when I had a complete historical narrative of our past and present and future could I see that it was, indeed, love.
It's more than that, though: I only knew that I loved you when I knew that it would never be. I only love the unattainable, the mysterious, the forbidden. I don't like realities -- the Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, the rote, the routine, the mundane. I like the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, the late nights and late mornings and the lazy afternoons, the departure from the norm and the potential for the unexpected. And so, I love the holidays. I just loved them a little bit more when you were here too.
I lingered in bed this morning because of the holiday. I reflexively reached my hand across to the other side, forgetting that you're not there anymore. Remember all the hours we spent here? Do you think about it at all? For me, on days like this, it's like you never left. Your ghost lingers -- the ghost of us lingers. It haunts me.
I was never entirely sure that I loved you until the day you left. I suspected, but I was never certain until that instant. Maybe it's because I only really love things that are too broken to salvage, like the furniture I insist on rescuing from my neighbors' trash or the ratty old sweater that my mom wore when I was a kid. I see the most beauty in the imperfections and the history that they represent. And so, only when I had a complete historical narrative of our past and present and future could I see that it was, indeed, love.
It's more than that, though: I only knew that I loved you when I knew that it would never be. I only love the unattainable, the mysterious, the forbidden. I don't like realities -- the Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, the rote, the routine, the mundane. I like the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, the late nights and late mornings and the lazy afternoons, the departure from the norm and the potential for the unexpected. And so, I love the holidays. I just loved them a little bit more when you were here too.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Running away
I pretended that I was asleep until I heard the sound of your key in the lock. As soon as the coast was clear, I got up from the bed, walked into the closet, grabbed my backpack, and started putting all of my clothes in it. I didn't have much at the time, but still, there wasn't a lot of room in the bag. So I went to the kitchen and grabbed a grocery bag. I put as much stuff in it as I could fit.
With every echo, every noise, I had to catch my breath, waiting for you to storm back into the house, to ask what I was doing. But you didn't, and I was in the clear.
It felt like an eternity, but I was finished packing within 10 minutes. I thought about making the bed, the way you always had me do it every morning before we left the house, despite the fact that I always argued that it was wasted effort. "Fuck it," I thought, and left it exactly the way it was.
I grabbed my car keys and headed to the door, not entirely certain of where I would be going next, or whether you would try to come after me. I wasn't sure you cared enough to follow, but I was entirely sure that you'd be angry. I still hated making you angry. I shuddered at the thought.
I locked the door from the inside, pulled it shut, and left. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I knew I'd be okay.
With every echo, every noise, I had to catch my breath, waiting for you to storm back into the house, to ask what I was doing. But you didn't, and I was in the clear.
It felt like an eternity, but I was finished packing within 10 minutes. I thought about making the bed, the way you always had me do it every morning before we left the house, despite the fact that I always argued that it was wasted effort. "Fuck it," I thought, and left it exactly the way it was.
I grabbed my car keys and headed to the door, not entirely certain of where I would be going next, or whether you would try to come after me. I wasn't sure you cared enough to follow, but I was entirely sure that you'd be angry. I still hated making you angry. I shuddered at the thought.
I locked the door from the inside, pulled it shut, and left. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I knew I'd be okay.
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