Monday, August 28, 2017

An image as of late {5 of 5}

His blue eyes as he finds out I'm a writer.

A quiver in our conversation.

The simple request spoken by an even voice,
asking me not to write about him.

The last of my coffee was cold,
but he'd already finished his cup.

I said I wouldn't write about him,
this is me living up to my word.

Some men are meant to read stories,
and others are meant to be them.

And so it goes with women, as well.

I am the latter, and that makes all of the difference.

An image as of late {4 of 5}

pressed against a face.

White buttons up a thin shirt,
and a spilled meal.

Messy hair,
caustic chemistry.

Every awkward dance around what should and should not be said.

I'll likely say it anyway.
I always say it anyway.

And so, here it is:

Me, moving.

Not for your sake, but for mine.

Here's the image:

You calling out my name,
and me turning just slightly to catch your eye,
and turn away.

The pang for me as big as the sting of the dismissal.

I should have gone for a second glance,
but to do so would have given all of me away.

An image as of late {3 of 5}

A shirt,
dripping wet,
hung on the bar of a laundromat cart,
weighed down with water,
weighed down with all of my unruly emotions.

I almost washed it in hot,
but remembered that not even the hottest cycle can shrink
what must cleanse itself.

So I bought a dress instead.

An image as of late {2 of 5}

The room was dim,
the voices loud,
and strewn.

I bought into your confidence because it was commendable and warranted.

You didn't hold your shoulders back because you truly believe you're more important than others, but because you wanted to show something of yourself,

and that's one fine breath of fucking fresh air if you ask me.

You reach for doors, and you step aside,
you maintain your eyes on mine,
and can roll the conversation through any room.

You walk the line of distance and interest,
and for that I also felt grateful --

For how you allowed me to barge through the door,
and curious about your life.

It's the worlds I am allowed into for hours at a time,
to count the books,
to note the artwork,
to see a bed that's made or messy.

I peered at myself in your mirror,
the hour was late,
we'd yet to have dinner.

I didn't quite recognize myself then.

The words that poured from my mouth were very much
words belonging to my life at present,
but who were we then -- in that moment?

What doorways had we walked through to get to the one within that
house off of the boulevard?

What doorways paved the way to the sort of normal where we can live in a place that is not home, and talk about people we could have never contrived within our own imaginations, and live a life we think we're still dreaming of?

I peered at myself, and you looked at the two of me, too.

You holding on to your confidence,
me white-knuckling mine.

I didn't know you smoked,
and you don't know a thousand things about me.

Yet here's the image in my mind:

Two young people without a clue,
on very hungry stomachs,
so thrown around by uncertainty and blissful ignorance --

a band playing the background to drown out the noise,
your kindness, which overwhelmed me,
and the continual feeling of 1:00 am in Hollywood.

An image as of late {1 of 5}

One day turned to two,
which turned to three,
which makes tomorrow feel somewhere along the lines of
never and forever.


The space between never and forever is all love needs to
tell the entire story.

And I am as suspended as you.

So, we wait.

But this is not love, I am learning.

It's just life.