Twenty-nine.

I know exactly how much
you're worth grieving for.

Twenty-eight. Gingham.

He knows the moment
just before you step out of your body entirely.
He takes your hand and you are grounded again.
He manages this when there is less
than a second left, and you trace
the tendons leading up to his fingers
once, to indicate that you are still there.


A song. The salt in the air, the salt on skin.

These synchronicities have little to do with you.
You, too, are merely practice.


The first time you sleep together
you dream of plums, fish,
and a birthday party in which
everyone other than him was invited.
And you wonder why he hasn't made an appearance
in your dreamscapes since the first night you met.


Whatever. There is no time for this.
Feed the cats, make sure the birds aren't dead,
make a list. Go to the grocery store
and don't buy any oranges.

Standing by the ocean used to make you feel
like you belonged to something.


I am ready for the wolves now.

Twenty-seven.

And then I woke up covered in blood.

Twenty-six.

There are still these days.
You write things in your head while showering
and lose approximately one-third of your lines
before you wrap a towel around your body.
The cat presses her face into your neck
and you wish it was somebody else. These things
are simple enough, but the truth is
you don't know how to align anyone, but
when you're with him the circles come together.

Twenty-five.

I wish you could see what I do.
I wish I could see what you do.

Twenty-four.

An inexplicable desire to be a part of beautiful scenes.

Twenty-three.

Last night I dreamed that you spoke to me about finches,
and I was surrounded by pretty blonde girls
who all wanted me to explain you. I woke up
to find you screaming at yourself for not knowing,
but what am I supposed to do? Forgiveness?
Forgiveness isn't a switch on the wall or a drink
to be poured down a throat. In my dream,
there was a tornado and I tried to leap into the ocean.
I am not coming back.

Twenty-two.

I am not a foolish woman. I know when to walk away.

Twenty-one.

There are many things that you would like
to tell him. This, is not unusual. You do this.
You are only attracted to impossible people.
At least, you tell yourself, it is always
for the right reasons. It has nothing to do with
physical beauty or flowers brought to your steps.
This time you are concerned. Pushing against it
as if it were a rock, a door, or a lie.
He wasn't something to be afraid of at first.

So you make up excuses.
Something about friendship, and how you
"don't date people with blue eyes,"
even though you're in love with the ocean.
And how you need the water and he needs the sand.
Occasionally, you take a photograph
with your mind and note that you don't physically match.
Someone like him would not be with
someone like you, skin covered in pictures,
nervous mannerisms, etcetera, etcetera.
Maybe this is all imaginary, but you'll take
whatever boundaries you can get.

You wonder when this will become hard.
When you'll do something stupid like kiss him
or run. You're looking everywhere for a distraction.
More work, more nights away from home.
It doesn't hurt badly yet.
There are bigger things. But what if, what if,
what if. You take pride in being able to remove
yourself when there's an empty space,
in burying yourself in haystacks.
Everybody is waiting for something,
and you worry who will find you first.

Twenty.

Considering distorted perceptions:

What you don't see yet, are the things I am not
insecure about. The colour of my eyes, especially
in sunlight. The strength of my voice when I read out loud.
What my hands can do with a pencil, and a surface
to put lines on. The way I retain knowledge and facts
about anything that I'm interested in, including
species of birds, philosophical theories, metaphysics,
nice sounding words, algebra, and you.
How I rarely use recipes when I cook.
My ability to make anything sound pretty, written out.
The way I can wear nearly any article of clothing well.
The way my body looks naked, or in underwear,
particularly when stretched across a bed with flushed cheeks.
How I play guitar and sing when I'm alone.
How I really and genuinely appreciate each joyful moment.
My grace on a bicycle, my airport navigational skills,
how I am not afraid to tell someone when I like them,
or ask a stranger out, or kiss a man first.
How I stay calm in emergencies, mean "unconditional"
when I say it, and am fiercely loyal to those who deserve it.

I am not a weak person. I may not speak as well as you,
or articulate myself correctly, or be a ball of sunshine
rolling across town and illuminating every body.
But I'd like to think that sometimes, maybe,
I'm the kind of person that's worth knowing.

Nineteen.

I didn't mean for any of this to happen.

Eighteen.

Someday I'll tell you about
when I saw you for the first time.
In a bar laughing,
I was waiting for somebody else.
I knew your face, the shape of your voice,
but I hadn't recognized you yet.
And when I did, the room began to glow
and I thought it was a mistake.

Seventeen.

(I never start at the beginning. I leap into the middle of stories, and now this is something I can not read to you so it will not be finished properly. I don't know where I would have started, but it would have stung you at the second stanza when I began:)

Can you imagine how uncomfortable it must be then,
to be labeled as "The Other Woman"
without having so much as lifted my skirt?
Without even having allowed a single stitch
to thread through the months of quiet space
between my street and his?
No, I am not the girl you're looking for.

You have your own battles, but you will not understand
how the scent of oranges, or the fold of a bird
wrecks me.

Meanwhile, September had me in a Pennsylvania hotel room
sharing a bed with someone who kissed the back of my neck
and whispered "I love you" into my spine.
I came home two days later and hated myself.
Then there was winter and everyone was unattainable
and afraid of something. And it's so tiring, isn't it?
Being afraid of everything and everything being afraid of you.
And I'm sitting here worrying about line breaks
and how I'm supposed to be honest in a room full of strangers.

I don't know how to tell you,
that this isn't what I expected.
That this isn't how I wanted to meet you
for the first time.

Sixteen.

I'm tired of everyone
being afraid of me.
There are far worse things
than ending up in bed
with somebody that means something
to you.

Interlude.

I have not touched this blog since November. This means I haven't wanted to write about him, that I've wanted other things, that too much started happening and thankfully, nothing is the same. I've written, mostly small paragraphs and short lines, and maybe it's time that I start giving them a home here. This is a new chapter. Hello, again.