Worshipping Bacchus

I am convinced the answers to all my worries lie in the bottom of this bottle of merlot. I am sprawled on my bedroom carpet next to the heater, two glasses into the bottle, and I already feel much more content about the meaning of it all. I've made solid progress. Really, I swear. I've already had some truly insightful observations, like:

- I'm much less hungry when I drink wine. Who needs dinner? I could save a fortune on    groceries.
- Wow, I need to vacuum. My hair really does get everywhere.
- Still. Hate. My. Thighs.
- Still love him, still love him, still love him...

See, who knows what could be revealed if I keep drinking? A sip here, a swish there, and then... wisdom, nestled right in there among the flavors of oak and tobacco and plum - little keys to make sense of love and life and fleeting happiness, swirling right onto my tongue.

If only it was a malbec, I could uncover the secrets of the entire universe...

Ebb

I close my eyes
and see only
yours,
brown and deep, and
more beautiful
when they rest on
me.

I open my
lips and feel just
air,
a cool nothing
where the soft warmth
of your tongue should
be...

And so I take
my sad, weary
heart
and bury it
deep within, where
you no longer
see.

What Remains

Sometimes in my sleep I find myself back there again, his eager kisses on my lips, ocean air chilling my skin, thunder of waves ringing in my ears. The dizzy euphoria of new love - how quickly the heart fills!

And how slowly that love recedes. Or maybe it never fully does so...

I haven't once asked myself if it was worth it, to love so intensely only to find myself grieving its loss. I have no doubt that it was worth every moment, every tear shed since. It has been six months since we walked away, and the sad memories have already become hazy. The ache of loss steadfastly remains, taking up residence in a corner of my soul, but the sting has dulled, the resentment exhaled with each deep breath.

What I remember so vividly - even now - is the feeling of being wrapped up in love: joy and comfort, stillness and passion, all fused into one. Oh, this is what all those love songs and poems are talking about! I get it now.

I remember the hope that steadied us for so long, and I try to rediscover a little piece of it every day. Somehow I know therein lies my salvation. I hope I find myself willing to take that leap again. I hope I remain ever the romantic. I hope I never regret loving, because that's when I am truly, wholly living. I hope, I hope, I hope.

I Am

“Today I had a conversation with my true self. She asked me why I had abandoned her, why I had ignored all her constant advice. And then she reminded me of all the things I had forgotten. And never once did she say, “I told you so.” – Monique Duval

I’ve spent a lot of time looking in the mirror lately: do I know who I am anymore? I lost little pieces of my self along the way to this place I’m at now. Actually, lost is the wrong word. Gave. I gave them away, willingly, hastily, in efforts to sustain this love, this life, I saw slipping away. And so I tried to be someone I wasn’t – a little more sophisticated, a little more domestic, a little more whatever-it-was-I-thought-he-was-looking-for – and in the process I gradually stopped being me. And so it is no wonder that we failed to connect any longer. It's difficult to nurture an intimate relationship when one of the participants is essentially missing... It's more difficult to crawl out of the wreckage, find a sturdy foothold, with such a diluted sense of self.

I began finding my self again the same way I sent her off, in bits and pieces, stashed away in cardboard boxes. A half-written poem, an old beloved sweater, a forgotten photo I had cherished and taken off the wall. And suddenly, there she was, all sass and stubbornness and confidence, a chatty, dancing, jeans-and-t-shirt wearing me.

We are becoming one and the same again, growing more sturdy every day. It's refreshing to feel like myself, invigorating just to be comfortable in my own skin again. And I have learned not to give her away, not to sacrifice the person who will always know me best, speak up for me loudest, hold on fiercely to my dreams and passions.

I am a dancer, a writer, a philosopher, a lover - eternally flawed and fallible, but always, for better or worse, me.