go ahead and say something dumb, boy, there’s no shame
In and out like a flash. I suppose that’s better than a firm grasp that takes years to soften. I don’t remember much other than a soft but i liked you creeping out and betraying the calm and cool that has been keeping summer bearable, and only now does it seem that the amateur was always myself.
petals falling on demand
It seemed nearly impossible for the words to stop dancing with each other; we kept talking and talking and talking. The sun creeped up and I got the feeling that you wanted to get all the stories out, all the best ones, anyway. I take breaks to wonder if it is dangerous to enjoy this; the glue holding me together from the cracks of Spring hasn’t set yet, but I fill myself with tenderness anyway. There was a kind of naïveté lingering in the air that felt exciting and sweet. Is this what being appreciated is supposed to feel like, even for a short moment?
Mortuary, Resnik, 2014
Where did you come from? You smiled at me from far away and suddenly you were everywhere. I’ve been changing my soundscape and I’ve been changing my circular tendencies. I got scared when you asked me if I wanted to smoke outside of that bar because I’ve been there before and I know how that ends. I know how I am not ready. I know how precarious I can be when I’ve dranken fire to blow. But there was a moment when the needle dropped and I realized that a serendipitous moment as such shouldn’t be written off, because your smile is quite nice up close and my thoughts are anything but fleeting.
and there it goes
You gave me six reasons. Six completely shattering reasons why love and us were never a perpendicular occurrence in my sleep. Six different rebuttals to your alibis, six different ways to crumble. All of the anger I’ve collected like firewood to keep myself safe dissipates with your faulty, soft waking words. They drip out of your mouth quietly and I try to hold them close enough to keep my dreams at bay but far enough to see them for what they are. I want to think it could mean something less empty than three months of turning the lights off alone. I need to stop believing in you and start believing in the god-awful geometry that has been staring at me in the dark.
Jardin Botánico Buenos Aires Argentina.
like a labyrinth
It takes time is all I know. The turns are marked with rooms lit solely by my sewing machine and recovered records in the morning, by a bad decision that I’ve learned to laugh about later. Some days I don’t think about what you are doing, and some days I do. Of those some days, there are days that I care and some that I don’t. There are nights that I still wake up, assuming you are an arm’s distance away- and nights that I’ve slept through peacefully and without the thought of you. Finding happiness is hard when you are attempting to search for it linearly, and no list or book or friendly advice can help. Instead, I keep searching for the colors that shoot off like a flash in my day and slather the pigment over my dull skin. I let it sink through my pores in hopes that all this contentedness absorbs me whole.
you send me (honest you do)
And there I was, dusting off a gift I haven’t seen in years with a friend’s paintbrush. I held it up to the light at an angle to see the old familiar wrinkles of the layers of paint that I used to stare at adoringly in the happiest Spring. My friend’s old Fisher Price record player clumsily recited Sam Cooke songs in the background alongside the rain. We wrapped the remaining paintings in twine and I looked at them like old friends. I pretended that everything was okay and that nothing — not even terse consonant clusters on phone lines and the memory of my Olympic racing heart when he smiled at me—could touch me now.