cafe 101, hollywood
I’ve started to miss all the things that used to drive me crazy: the way you curled your lips when you think you’ve said something particularly interesting, the way you described everything as “wild,” the odd pseudo-Caribbean accent you’d occasionally take on after a drink. It’s poisonous to miss these things, I know. I’ve been overlooking all the lies we told each other and ourselves and fixated on the memories of us believing those lies. I’m holding my breath but I can’t seem to understand why.
My fingertips are holding onto the cracks of our foundations,
and I know that I should let go, but I can’t.
because you always got angry about how i refuse to say it
I’m sorry that I made you switch luggage with me in Chile. I’m sorry that I insisted on sharing two plates of food instead of getting our own individual plates in Buenos Aires. I’m sorry I got too whiskey-drunk in Las Cañitas. I’m sorry that I refused that frozen pizza after I broke my finger and asked for mac and cheese instead. I’m sorry that I didn’t respond to your messages that night because I was angry. I’m sorry that I never wanted to listen to podcasts on our road trips. I’m sorry that I never walked the dog with you. I’m sorry that I insisted on staying up and fighting instead of waiting until the morning. I’m sorry that I took too long to trust you. I’m sorry that I ignored you that one time at the group dinner because of inconsequential commentary. I’m sorry that I made you wait in that snotty Argentine boutique while I tried on clothes. I’m sorry that I packed my things and nearly drove off when you called me by your ex’s nickname, even though we have the same name so it’s not that big of a deal, I don’t guess. I’m sorry I didn’t set more clear boundaries when I asked for space. I’m sorry that I pouted that one time you left in a rush and didn’t kiss me goodbye. I’m sorry I criticized your hat, you know the one. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be more patient with you when you got too drunk and saw only the problem but chose not to listen better. I’m sorry that I retaliated in so many cryptic ways. I’m sorry that in all my arrogance, I refused to apologize to you when I made you sad. I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop breaking your heart, and I’m sorry that I keep letting you break mine. I’m sorry, my dear.
more than brittle sunflower petals know
This is a kind of loneliness that turns a person into a hollowed bust.
and you don’t have to tell me nothing
'cause you know that you've already shown it
and even when you’re good and strong
the feeling’s gone, and don’t I know it.
The amount of time my his set of keys have remained untouched on my nightstand can be expressed in weeks now. I may have filled in the space that he used to paint in with sunflowers and books and typewriters, but I still can’t quite look at it without feeling a pit in my stomach.
I can feel everyone a little further than an arm’s reach from me; I can barely brush by comfort and trust in another with my fingertips. The old self-soothing burial methods no longer do the trick. Instead, I rely on the warm sunspots on the road when I cruise by aimlessly on my bicycle, maps of places I’ve never been, my dog’s goofy gait when I show her a leash. Being lonely doesn’t have to be bad, and I’d rather be alone than in his heartbreaking company, anyway.
The sound of anonymous cars passing by has replaced the sound of your car leaving. I sit in the plain middle of my bed in a room more foreign than ever and exhale with trepidation.
And there it sits. My peace terrarium and the two keys that stole my happiness, resting on my nightstand, as if I’ll know how to get any rest with these relics of my naïveté.