My love is a whisper
My dream, a roar
Flung from a gilded cage, my soul
darts and flits, avoiding pause
Avoiding
... Stillness. Love. Him.
Avoiding another ending.
If I land, I may
lose my wings
shade this audacity
absorb
the weight of yet another
heavy, static love
In motion
I am illuminated, I am light.
It is only me.
... Apart. Lonely. Free.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Rhetoric
Words. We incessantly nitpick them. We assess the tone, the timing, the inflection in efforts to understand each other, convinced that the substance of our intentions is disguised among the syllables. We adhere to a phrase we can't decipher, rolling it over our tongues again and again. The answers must be in there.
Maybe this why I am so haunted by all he did not say, perpetually grasping to fill in the gaps of all I still fail to understand about him, about the decline of a love that once seemed so tender: instead of a single garish flaw to dissect, there are a multitude to consider, discard, consider again, agonize over... The guesswork is exhausting.
Did I imagine it all? Or interpret trifles as something more? Did I make the mistake of my life and build a passion out of a repartee?
I asked. I asked him as our words waned, as our touches withdrew. I asked him at the end, when the silence had become a canyon. He remained silent.
And somewhere in the silence, he lost me.
The fatigue of second-guessing myself finally conquered my ardent romanticism. The ever increasing silence only made sense when I retreated into the hollow of a shell, built a wall to keep out the sound of anything but my own footsteps.
Occasionally, a brick falls. And in the sharp stillness that follows I hear the old, familiar refrain: I love you, I love you, I love you. But it has been so long now, so long since he has said the words - and the voice begins to sound more like my own. Am I still talking?
Maybe this why I am so haunted by all he did not say, perpetually grasping to fill in the gaps of all I still fail to understand about him, about the decline of a love that once seemed so tender: instead of a single garish flaw to dissect, there are a multitude to consider, discard, consider again, agonize over... The guesswork is exhausting.
Did I imagine it all? Or interpret trifles as something more? Did I make the mistake of my life and build a passion out of a repartee?
I asked. I asked him as our words waned, as our touches withdrew. I asked him at the end, when the silence had become a canyon. He remained silent.
And somewhere in the silence, he lost me.
The fatigue of second-guessing myself finally conquered my ardent romanticism. The ever increasing silence only made sense when I retreated into the hollow of a shell, built a wall to keep out the sound of anything but my own footsteps.
Occasionally, a brick falls. And in the sharp stillness that follows I hear the old, familiar refrain: I love you, I love you, I love you. But it has been so long now, so long since he has said the words - and the voice begins to sound more like my own. Am I still talking?
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Dressed Up and Dreaming
I never understood all the fuss about weddings. I never considered what we would wear or how we would decorate or even the flavor of cake. When I thought about weddings, I thought about him smiling at me, a smile that would easily eclipse any tuxedo. And kissing each other. And the thrill of knowing he loved me that much.
I guess I wasn't concerned with the wedding; I wanted what came after. I wanted him to be my roots, my home, the thing that steadied me. I wanted to be the best part of his day, to fill those little in-between moments with the stuff of love: a heart drawn on a post-it note, a kiss as we passed in the hallway, a glass of wine brought to him as he typed...
I would have married him wearing a t-shirt, with no ado whatsoever, and happily gone home to build this life I wanted for us so very much.
But we never built that life. He didn't want it. Or he didn't want me. (I don't know; I didn't ask.) And after the dream dissipated, I began to feel contempt toward the idea of marriage. It seemed such a flighty notion, to build a tangible temple upon nothing but love - love, such an erratic, fickle, whimsical thing. Such a nebulous foundation. It was bound to crumble.
A week ago, I saw this gown.
And it tugged at the girlish reveries of romance I thought I had finally left behind. It wasn't so much the gown as what it represented: a steadfast love, one with enough faith and courage to build a temple, build a life and walk into the future together. Loving each other that much. Proof that sometimes taking the leap and investing all that love and hope and intimacy is so completely worth it, that sometimes the temple will last.
I want to be all dressed up in love again. It may be layers of the lightest tulle, like this gown, or it may be the soft cotton of an old favorite t-shirt. The fabric won't matter as long as it fits, as long as the seams are sewn well enough to last, as long as we can build a temple upon it.
I guess I wasn't concerned with the wedding; I wanted what came after. I wanted him to be my roots, my home, the thing that steadied me. I wanted to be the best part of his day, to fill those little in-between moments with the stuff of love: a heart drawn on a post-it note, a kiss as we passed in the hallway, a glass of wine brought to him as he typed...
I would have married him wearing a t-shirt, with no ado whatsoever, and happily gone home to build this life I wanted for us so very much.
But we never built that life. He didn't want it. Or he didn't want me. (I don't know; I didn't ask.) And after the dream dissipated, I began to feel contempt toward the idea of marriage. It seemed such a flighty notion, to build a tangible temple upon nothing but love - love, such an erratic, fickle, whimsical thing. Such a nebulous foundation. It was bound to crumble.
A week ago, I saw this gown.
I want to be all dressed up in love again. It may be layers of the lightest tulle, like this gown, or it may be the soft cotton of an old favorite t-shirt. The fabric won't matter as long as it fits, as long as the seams are sewn well enough to last, as long as we can build a temple upon it.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Perfectionist
If there is a loose string, I am compelled to pull it. I cannot leave it there, let it go, admire the beauty of the many other perfect knots. I will keep coming back to that one stray piece again and again, itching for a way to weave it into the pattern; I will examine, smooth, braid, tuck. I will turn over the fabric, then turn it back again, then repeat. And, inevitably, my fiddling will be the true reason for its unraveling. The end will fray or the length will weaken... And then it will come undone.
Like an old, worn sweater. Like the edges of a hand-me-down rug. Like a disregarded love.
Like an old, worn sweater. Like the edges of a hand-me-down rug. Like a disregarded love.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Intangible
When she was still barely a girl, just on the verge of being a woman, she met a boy and quickly fell in love. She spent hours admiring the nape of his neck, his carefree laugh, his distinctive way of moving through a crowd to reach her - the unique traits that only lovers really know.
After a while, she began plucking out little pieces of her soul and gently presenting them to him. He hadn't asked her to; she wasn't sure why she started. She didn't even notice she was doing it until it had been going on for quite some time. She guessed she just loved him so much that it seemed natural to make an offering, to give herself over to the momentum of it all. Besides, they would be together forever, so she could retrieve the pieces any time she needed them. She might as well share.
He did not keep hold of the pieces very well. Some were dropped, others lost among his pockets, a few seemingly discarded. He had always been a little absentminded...
When his arms were full, she thought she might like a little piece of his in return, just a tiny one to keep in her pocket, turn over in her hand when she missed him. A token. She waited patiently, certain that he would press one into her palm... but he didn't. She waited, waited, waited longer. Finally she asked him for a piece, just a tiny one, to hold close to her during his nights away. But he shook his head.
He must be confused, she thought. He must not understand that their souls were already fitted together like a puzzle. And so she asked again. And still he shook his head.
She sighed. She pointed to all the pieces she had given him - brimming from his pockets, stashed in his drawers, messily piled in the corners of the room - and then, hesitantly, she held out her upturned palm.
He stood very still for the longest time, so still she could hear the tick of the clock. Then he shook his head. "These are my pieces. If I give them to you, what will I have?"
"I gave you mine... You will have mine," she said."And I will have yours."
"Why should we give away our pieces?" he asked.
She thought for a moment. She wasn't sure. It had just seemed natural. "I guess... I guess to... to be part of each other," she fumbled.
He smiled. It was the smile a teacher gives a student who speaks too quickly, who has already learned the answer to the question but fails to realize it.
"Give me your hand," he said. She placed her hand in his and he pulled it to his chest, ran it along the outline of his rib. And she felt the most intricate patterns there, thin vines wound around and over and through. She caressed another rib, and another, and there, on each one, the same elaborate design. How had she never noticed them before?
"See?" he said. "We already are part of each other. We made our marks long ago." He gestured to the patterns. "You have always been part of me."
After a while, she began plucking out little pieces of her soul and gently presenting them to him. He hadn't asked her to; she wasn't sure why she started. She didn't even notice she was doing it until it had been going on for quite some time. She guessed she just loved him so much that it seemed natural to make an offering, to give herself over to the momentum of it all. Besides, they would be together forever, so she could retrieve the pieces any time she needed them. She might as well share.
He did not keep hold of the pieces very well. Some were dropped, others lost among his pockets, a few seemingly discarded. He had always been a little absentminded...
When his arms were full, she thought she might like a little piece of his in return, just a tiny one to keep in her pocket, turn over in her hand when she missed him. A token. She waited patiently, certain that he would press one into her palm... but he didn't. She waited, waited, waited longer. Finally she asked him for a piece, just a tiny one, to hold close to her during his nights away. But he shook his head.
He must be confused, she thought. He must not understand that their souls were already fitted together like a puzzle. And so she asked again. And still he shook his head.
She sighed. She pointed to all the pieces she had given him - brimming from his pockets, stashed in his drawers, messily piled in the corners of the room - and then, hesitantly, she held out her upturned palm.
He stood very still for the longest time, so still she could hear the tick of the clock. Then he shook his head. "These are my pieces. If I give them to you, what will I have?"
"I gave you mine... You will have mine," she said."And I will have yours."
"Why should we give away our pieces?" he asked.
She thought for a moment. She wasn't sure. It had just seemed natural. "I guess... I guess to... to be part of each other," she fumbled.
He smiled. It was the smile a teacher gives a student who speaks too quickly, who has already learned the answer to the question but fails to realize it.
"Give me your hand," he said. She placed her hand in his and he pulled it to his chest, ran it along the outline of his rib. And she felt the most intricate patterns there, thin vines wound around and over and through. She caressed another rib, and another, and there, on each one, the same elaborate design. How had she never noticed them before?
"See?" he said. "We already are part of each other. We made our marks long ago." He gestured to the patterns. "You have always been part of me."
Friday, July 13, 2012
Shapes
Love.
Like thin, bony fingers
clenched around my chest,
like exhaling the
very
last
drop of air.
Like the heat of the sun on my cheek,
bare toes scrunching in the grass...
like the weightlessness of a Saturday.
Like laughter,
tumbling out so carefree,
filling the world with
the songs of my heart
la la la la...
Like the last glance back
at the dullest pair of eyes,
like looking in a mirror
while the reflection
fades away.
Like my head on the curve
of his shoulder,
the familiar arc of a form
I know as well as my own.
Like an abyss of darkness,
hands outstretched before me,
seeking the path already
etched upon my palms.
Like thin, bony fingers
clenched around my chest,
like exhaling the
very
last
drop of air.
Like the heat of the sun on my cheek,
bare toes scrunching in the grass...
like the weightlessness of a Saturday.
Like laughter,
tumbling out so carefree,
filling the world with
the songs of my heart
la la la la...
Like the last glance back
at the dullest pair of eyes,
like looking in a mirror
while the reflection
fades away.
Like my head on the curve
of his shoulder,
the familiar arc of a form
I know as well as my own.
Like an abyss of darkness,
hands outstretched before me,
seeking the path already
etched upon my palms.
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