I remember the crisp air.

I remember feeling alive.

I remember you, with short, brown hair and a pretty face, picking me up on a street corner in the rain.

I remember the windows fogging up and getting carpet burn on my face.

I remember feeling full.

I feel like I’ve died a thousand times since then.




I dream of humid summer nights with smoke hanging thick in the air
Your hands wrap around my waist like butterfly wings
I don’t know who you are yet, but that’s what evokes
The feeling of being young and alive and invincible.
You take a hit and shotgun it into my mouth and
blow my mind as your lips part like the inside of a tangerine.

We go to the state fair; you don’t think it’s white trash.
You say, “let’s get on the Ferris wheel so we can be closer
To the stars.”
I say, quietly, intently, “OK.”
You look at me and run your fingers through my hair like you’re
Spinning gold.
You buy me cotton candy, you win me
A giant teddy bear.

Back at your apartment, I fall asleep on your lap while we watch some foreign film.
You wake me up to remind me that I should brush my teeth.
I think, “finally, someone who understands the small things
Like me.”

We wake up the next morning.
We make love.
We wake up again, this time for real.


Two parted

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken —hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Lord Byron

And I don’t know how it crept in

The walls were almost up, fortified. The cement pressed firmly between the bricks, excess scraped away cleanly. And as I laid the last rectangle made of baked stone and sand onto the foundation—ever so carefully, even—it tumbled and crumbled and lay in rubble. All of it. All my work.

Plenty of blood, plenty of sweat. Now, the tears.

Your hand wrestles with mine in the dark. And now it grasps at the abyss that is my absence. It can feel like an abyss, can’t it? The loneliness. The late night/early morning communications that get lost in tears flowing down the shower drain as I try to get ready for work. For the day. For my life. Or maybe just the next moment.

Yes, just the next moment.

Not my image--found on Pinterest with no attribution

When you can’t anymore

The sadness is returning again like an old hag that never really died–just took a long(er) nap.

I choke back the words I wish I could say without infuriating you. I’m just trying to help, I say, sitting awkwardly next to you–nearly silent–while you look most stoic.

I can see it in your eyes–I’m no longer the apple. There is no apple.

This was fruitless.