I listened to a song you showed me
for the first time in years.
It put me back in that room,
with the large windows
and strangely warm floors.
Those months we had
feel like a lifetime ago.
So much has changed, and yet,
here I am, writing a little
poem about a memory of us.
We talk less now,
as we grow older and further apart.
But I know there are little
strands of gray and black thread
tying us together.
Despite our distance,
I know you are there.
I wish I was
as oblivious as the woman
driving in front of me,
who has had her right blinker on
for three miles.
I wish I was
as peaceful as a church
at night.
No righteous to tell me I’m wrong.
No saints to pray for my sins.
I wish I was
better at all of this —
the thing we call life.
I bite my nails when bored,
and I light candles to feel less alone.
Have you ever watched
flames dance, shadows on the wall?
I pretend each is a different ghost,
with their own story to tell.
I’ve got another year under my belt,
but I keep making new notches
for the buckle to fasten.
Sometimes I feel like I’m shrinking
as everything else gets so much bigger.
I never imagined making it this far,
and yet, I’m grateful to be where I am.
I’ve been thinking about you
and how you would understand these thoughts
of mine, without question.
You’d nod, dropping your gaze
just enough to appear as if in prayer.
I hope you’re doing well.
From what I gather, you are.
I’m happy our paths crossed
when they did, and I hope they
continue to as we zigzag through
this maze of truths and fiction.
I told a friend about you,
and you as well.
She related, telling stories
of faceless people.
I leaned into her words,
finding parallels to my story
and tracing the circular elements.
Halfway through she made a good point.
She said we have
poorly woven baskets,
not prepared for all of the eggs
we might carry.
My basket is generally fine,
though a bit too small
for everything I feel about you.
It’s missing a few sticks,
making it easy for eggs
to fall out, and
the bottom sags a little
from the time I
left it in the rain.
As she shared,
we are not well-prepared,
well-adjusted for all of *this,*
cramming eggs into a basket
not fit to hold them.
I am so desperate, it seems,
to feel everything and to
not let go.
If I had more baskets,
perhaps I would know what to do,
maybe I could move forward,
but alas,
there’s just the one,
labeled “you,”
overflowing with eggs.
Things I want to remember from camping:
The birds sang so sweetly
outside my window
that evening.
It was as if they knew,
felt, my shifting pain.
Their songs were nothing
like the early morning tweets
or harsh afternoon calls.
Their music carried lightly
across the sky,
like a helium balloon caught
in the breeze.
I stared into the mass of
bamboo stalks and vines,
feeling tears roll down as
I looked for the birds.
I wish I could change things
from the last few months.
If only we could have listened
to those birds together and
talk about the magic of everyday things.
But you don’t believe in magic,
living in a world so black and white
one becomes dizzy of its
ever-changing parts.
I know the twinkle I saw
everytime our eyes met was real,
and that the fluttery, happy gut feeling
was real too.
I would call those moments magic —
something special —
but I know you’d call them ordinary.
I still think of us,
together,
sometimes.
It’s never much,
just fleeting thoughts
of what I’d tell you
in certain moments.
I used to think
you could read my mind —
as if my face was covered
in unspoken words.
I miss seeing
your lips quirk
and that playfulness
light up your eyes.
I wonder if you ever think of me
at the exact time I think of you.
Maybe you don’t think of me anymore,
but I’d like to think that there’s an invisible thread
connecting us, and if I only was able to tug on it,
you’d know you’re on my mind.
I’ve been stuck,
trying to find words
that I want to share
about you.
I don’t want to dwell
on all of the things
that didn’t work between us.
There’s too much to explain
really.
But there were moments,
where we just clicked.
When time passed too fast
and we tried to cling
to each other for a minute longer.
I loved your playfulness.
Like when you would try to get my
attention by picking me up.
So many times, I’d be
cooking something in the kitchen,
and you’d manage
to turn me upside down —
my face beet red and
head dizzy from the inversion.
I remember that one afternoon,
both of us tired but chatty,
and you pretended
to be your cat.
I don’t recall laughing
like that in so long.
I thought our neighbors
were going to come check on me
because of my howling.
Tears streamed down my cheeks
as you nuzzled obsessively
and purred and batted like any cat
with an anxious-attachment style.
I miss that.
And I miss you. At least parts.
We might not have been soulmates,
but we were something
that, with all odds against us,
kept coming together.
Things that make me happy (in case I forget):
I could hear the trees creaking.
I could hear the trees creaking
as your breathing slowed,
and I fell asleep
to the peaceful mixture.
I dreamed of nymphs,
nimble and wiry,
dancing and singing
in the windy night.
When the sun peeked
through the blinds
the next morning,
she reminded me
of everything.
She made me wonder
if you were sunshine
in human form.
You are fiery and blinding,
yet warm against my skin.
Like when using a weighted blanket,
I am equal parts comforted and nervous.
It’s scary and confusing
to embark on this path
with so many unknowns or
unvoiced thoughts.
But it’s warm here,
with my sunspot.
Maybe the light that’s
bursting from my chest
sees the light
tucked away in you.
If you were to cut me open,
bleed me until my lips turned blue,
you’d find only words
pouring from the gash.
My blood has grown thick
with adverbs and dependent clauses,
muddled by you
and I and what-if.
I wish these words
would tattoo my body,
an ever-changing sea
of my heart and soul.
It’s nerve-wracking to share
those things I keep
tucked inside.
My legs and arms shake
in anticipation,
not sure whether to run
or reach out.
If you found me,
words spilling onto the carpet
in a mess of red,
would you take the time
to read them?
Would you scoop them up,
gently, and return them
to my open arms,
grown tired from holding
back the tide?
As I fade in and out,
two words
bubble to the surface.
____ and ___
mark my final moment.
So It Goes 