Love Notes

Sorry

2010-04-05T14:04:00.001-04:00

Maybe I'll write again this summer. I do miss it and I have ideas. Everything is platitudes for now, though.

I Was Once Useful

2010-01-05T01:00:00.002-05:00

We are not like the smaller towns.
This city leaves its refuse
on the sidewalks and street corners.
The things, even the people
that it’s rejected are left
on display for the tourists
to see and judge by. They think
we must live lavishly with
how much we waste. We just don’t know
what to hold onto.

Oh, the Colors!

2010-01-05T00:47:00.005-05:00

Carefully, so that I wouldn’t snap the rubber on my face, I pulled the large mask over my eyes. “This isn’t as fun as diving, but at least you’ll get to see a few things.” I nodded and flapped my newly flippered feet. I had never see anything other than the minnows and sand crabs that hung around in the shallows, nibbling at our toes, so even “a few things” would be interesting.

We had picked a good day; they sky and water were both clear and bright blue. I could almost see to the very bottom of the ocean and that made me giddy. There were mysteries down there, bright and colorful, things that we only saw in the pages of National Geographic or those documentaries on the Discovery Channel.

“Ready?” I looked at you, anticipating the cold splash. I nodded, almost over-eager. “Ok, on three we’ll go in. One. Two.” By this time your smile had grown just as large as mine, probably at seeing my excitement. It was a contagious feeling sometimes. You drew out the last pause, building up the energy. “Aaaaand…Three!”

I held my breath when I slid off of the platform even though I had a snorkel and could have breathed easily. I looked around for you first and saw you kicking up waves, moving away from the boat, holding your plastic-coated camera in front of you. I turned and headed the other way, keeping my eyes peeled for anything of interest.

It wasn’t long until I found a school of what I were sure were called Angel Fish. Bright yellow, black and white stripes hurried around, only inches below me. If I'd wanted to, I could have reached out and grabbed any one of them, but I was content to watch them flutter around in the blue.

When I looked up again, I saw you only a few feet away, watching me watching the fish, holding your camera in front of you. You had a grin on your face and I knew that you hadn’t brought it for the sea life.

Vespers.

2010-01-05T00:44:00.002-05:00

Couples curled on the few patches of grass,
sharing homes with roosting pigeons.

There is no shame in a city like this.

We will sit three feet away
from each other for hours, neither
making a bold enough move.
I will imagine our life together and he
will listen closer to his music. We'll leave
together, but not for the same place.
My arms are open for him.
He is three feet away and will not move
any closer.

I try to smile honestly
because I know that it is beautiful
and I know there is a difference but it is so hard
when you have left me,
so full of sadness.

So I am still learning how to forget about you,
but everything here is yours. You would have
loved it, maybe even loved me,
loved who it has made me become.

I am not in love with you, but I miss what we had.
I hope you are better than the last
time I saw you. I hope you are on your way
somewhere good. And yes,
I hope you miss me or at least
think about me from time to time.

Your birthday is coming up.
The streets are wet and empty.
Things are starting to smell of mildew
and that doesn't make me want you any less.

I want to feel myself in your arms.
It is winter and the flowers are
struggling to grow. I have forgotten how
to tell you I love you I love you I love you
I love you.

from my journal

Between You and Me

2010-01-04T23:27:00.003-05:00

I start the day, a Friday, by cleaning the house, making it acceptable for company. Of course it's never untidy; this occasion simply calls for more meticulous care than usual. You're already at work and your boss has greeted you with an amicable pat on the back and a mention of his anticipation for this evening.

Once the house is in the proper condition I begin to prepare the meal for the night: salad, sautéed green beans, seasoned broiled potatoes and a roast; iced peach tea and red wine with dinner, cocktails before and coffee and tea with lovely oatmeal lace cookies after.

When things can be left on their own I set the table for you at the head, myself to your right, your boss at the other end and the other guests dispersed throughout. The fine china and silverware will already be at each place before they all arrive, along with neutral floral centerpieces and low candles.

I arrange the serving platters and place them in their respective storing areas--the fridge for cool items, the oven for warm--before changing. I dress in a tea-length number with pearls and understated pumps--very different from my day-time attire.

You come home and change while I arrange the beverage cart. The guests arrive and enjoy their drinks, which you expertly prepare. As they finish their liquor I'll finish the table, setting out the food and arriving in the dining room with the roast just as they reach their own seats. You carve it perfectly. The conversation during the meal is light and cheery and eventually leads to more positive attention from your boss.

As the evening wears down and the guests all leave I'll begin to clean again, clearing the table before pulling an apron over my head. While I scrape dishes over the sink you come behind me, rest your hands on my hips and your lips on my neck. A perfect evening.

As These Things Go: Persephone (as a housewife of the 1950s)

2009-09-28T20:51:00.001-04:00

This wasn’t what I asked for. I mean, of course it wasn’t. They call what happened to me a rape. I don’t know if I would go that far with it—he never tried to force himself upon me. There was hardly time, anyway. He begged for me to love him and made me stand at his side, but sex was for naught. And for the better. My cries would have matched those of the dead and their grieving kin who still lived above. So long as things were as they were I stayed quiet and kept my sorrow within.

This didn’t keep it private, of course. Without my mother and without the sunlight I quickly became pale and withered like the plants my mother was neglecting in my absence. I could only imagine her pain mirrored my own.

And then Zeus struck a deal. I could be freed. Of course, we knew that wouldn’t be the case. He wouldn’t let me go so easily, even at his brother’s will. So with one pomegranate seed he managed to keep his hold on me, even if only for a mere four months each year.

And that was nearly three thousand years ago.

Of course thing are different now. After all of that time, how could they not be? I think, though, that people don’t understand that. They’re still telling the stories from before, from when things were too new and too easy. They don’t seem to realize that the gods do change too.

He’s made things better, of course. He wears a suit now instead of those old robes and togas. It’s much easier for him to work like this. And he runs things more like a business. There is paper work and his demons get coffee breaks and vacation days and Cerberus has their own caretakers. Thing are going quite well for them.

And as for me…

I say that things change, and they do, but sometimes one would be surprised by how little it really is.

Oh, yes, I still have my eight months of what has been called freedom. And the four months that I am here—they’re certainly different. I would almost be inclined to say better.

The time I spend above hasn’t been so wonderful since he first took me away. While my mother and the world rejoice over my yearly return I can hardly match their bright joy. I only know that my time is limited—longer than that I spend below, but regardless, I will have to leave so soon. And more recently I’ve learned to appreciate, to sometimes even enjoy our time together.

After five hundred years I learned to tolerate him. I took better care of myself while I was below. I still hated it—I still do, over all, but it has gotten easier since.

After one thousand he came to me. We had spent every day of my imprisonment together of course but this was the first time he had expected me to behave as his wife. It began awfully and he is still violent with it. I have learned how not to resist him, though. And he is always gentle afterward and holds me lightly. Sometimes I feel as if he would never let go. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t want him too.

Only recently has he expected me to behave as I am made to daily. He assigned me keepers to assure I hold my place. I am meant to me his woman, his doll. Despite his not needing it I am to prepare meals and keep things clean. I have to anticipate and attend to his whims and smile while I do so.

I see these women when I am above. They seem happy with their men. And their men even seem to love them. But do they feel their women’s breaking hearts when they lie with them?

Those Things We Said

2009-08-04T18:13:00.007-04:00

from August of 2008

I knew that I did not love you.

You were so young—you always were—and I didn’t realize our differences at the time. Even the light smoke of my cigarettes made you too dizzy to stand on your own. I didn’t know how much you needed me.

We took trips to the beach. Afterwards, while I washed the sand from my legs and fingers, you began spreading your findings across my living room floor. There is still sand in the carpet. Shocked, I asked what you were thinking. Holding a bottle of glue in hand, you insisted that you were fixing things. None of the pieces matched, but that didn’t stop you. It never did.

When the sun turned everything into liquid, you started taking pictures. My hands, knees, ankles, back. I tried to keep you at bay, to direct your lens elsewhere, but it was to no avail. That was how you became the only person to see my scars. That was how we saw each other naked the first time.

Despite your age, you became an adult before I did. I remember the night you came over after that first time. You rubbed your face, tired and forcing your smile. I thought about the fact that you did not sleep with him, although you could have. You probably even wanted to. I watched you climb onto my couch and wind yourself into the corner. I stayed far away. I didn’t know that you wanted to be touched, held, reminded that you were solid.

You smelled like smoke some nights and it made me cringe. Though I carried the smell myself, I was used to the sharp, sweet scent of apples on your skin. I liked to breath you in deep, when you would let me. When your smell turned from a crisp orange-red to murky grey, I didn’t tell you that I noticed. And it was only sometimes, only when you were out with other boys, boys who kept you on their couches, just inside the door.

At nights I would wake up to you whispering poetry from dog-eared pages. I never let you know that you had woken me. I didn’t want you to stop. The tense verses and end stops helped me relax when you were around. They helped me sleep when you were knotted next to me, so close, afraid to brush against me in your dreams. Some nights I would wait, awake with my eyes closed, and wish that you would, but I only ever felt your breath as you sighed someone else’s name.

When the trees lost their colors and everything became muted, we followed suit. I saw you only in passing: in parks and trains, between our outlined territories. You didn’t smile any more. Beads had replaced the camera around your neck and thin fabric outlined the spaces that men who were not me claimed. I found poetry in the piles of leaves that no one bothered collecting from the small yards around the city. You had disconnected from me, and from yourself.

By the time a year passed, I realized that my bed felt too large and empty without you tied in the blankets. Apples were not as sweet as they used to be and even my once-cherished cigarettes had lost their appeal. I saw parts of you in the backs of strangers, books of poetry and stacks of old magazines, but it had been too long to recognize you whole. You surprised me by appearing, in one piece, at my front door. I, who always had something to say, couldn’t think of a single word.

I did not know that I loved you.

Picket Fences

2009-08-04T02:39:00.005-04:00

from March of 2008.

“Adventure!” she cried. He continued to sleep. She tore through the apartment, leaving a trail of broken trinkets behind. “Excitement!” He twitched, but still didn’t wake. She didn’t touch a thing but there wasn’t a single unshattered vase or still assembled shelf when she finished her path. “Passion! Danger! Energy!”

He pulled a white pillow over his head and dreamt about a white picket fence.

She screamed everything she could to no avail. She had followed him to the end, to a letdown. When she finally ran out of breath she stood next to him, panting. It had been too long.

She left, using that door for only the second time.

He jumped from his dreams and saw the wreckage she had left. He sat stunned and didn’t move. He stayed in bed until the sun went back down, expecting her return.

He watched the seasons change through the window. He continued waiting.

She forgot him.

May. December.

2009-07-26T00:30:00.002-04:00

She wasn’t anyone special: a friend of a friend who maneuvered her way through a crowd or a conversation with ease. That was it. She was what your mom would have called a social butterfly. And she landed next to you when it was time to settle.

Close and attentive, she made you feel at ease. And for you, that meant something. Or it meant enough. You kept her within inches. Before you noticed, your arm was around her shoulders, pressing her cheek to your chest. You forgot about the other people in the room.

Her hands and mouth were warm, even in December, even without gloves. You moved quickly but carefully with her. You didn’t want to break her or her limits but you didn’t want to be apart from her.

She smiled one of those big, genuine kinds of smiles that you only see once or twice on people before you planted a rush of kisses on her lips. Barely touching her, so you weren’t even sure she could feel through her coat, you traced her arms and shoulders, where later there would be a tattoo that was not dedicated to you. You smiled at her and she blinked and blushed, looking into the street. You wondered if this was something she did regularly.

And in your too-small room you talked to her about the city you shared and other pointless things. You told her about the last time you were in love. You didn’t tell her you had ever been in love. She didn’t need to know. She laughed at the wrong times, but kept her hands on your skin. You tried to control your shaking muscles but it had been too long.

You pulled air in through your clenched teeth feeling her hands on your thighs, her lips and her tongue. She hummed a laugh and looked up at you with wide eyes. You wanted to laugh as well, to be in on her joke, but all you could do was exhale shakily and cup your hand around the back of her neck.

You lost track of your breath and her eyes. At least you didn’t have to think about this. Broken syllables caught in your throat. You pressed your lips together hard, trying to make it last. You didn’t want her to let go.

But she did. She sat back and pushed her hair out of her face. Laughing, gasping, she passed her tongue over her teeth then bit them into a smile. You sighed and managed a breathless chuckle yourself. You started to thank her or ask her to stay but the words still couldn’t make it all the way out. So what she heard was half of a squeak, which started her laughing again.

She pushed her hands down her thighs and worked her way back to her feet. You watched her find her things without moving yourself. She smiled at you again, this time shaking her head as she walked backwards out the door.

And Even Then...

2009-07-25T22:58:00.004-04:00

You can remember the last time you kissed a boy. Of course you can: it was the last time (and possibly even the first) that sex meant anything.

For almost a year you’ve been trading sex for affection. You don’t kiss boys. You brush your fingers across their thighs, your lips against their necks, your hips into their groins. You don’t look them in the eyes—or—when you do, it’s literally too much.

You’ve been in worse situations—pressed against a tree; hiding, with a stranger’s hand finding its way inside you; pulled by your wrists into another man’s bed who you didn’t say no to, no, not really.

So why is this so hard? Why is this the one time you can’t walk away? He didn’t ask you to stay. But. He didn’t ask you to leave either. Only now. No. It’s different now. More men, more time.

You could mark the months with bodies, someone new to lie with every thirty days. You tell your friends that it’s fun, that it’s easier this way. You don’t have to worry about getting attached or all of the complications of the inevitable break-up. You tell them that this way, you don’t even have enough time to learn their last names, let alone who they want to be.

You tell them that you’ll stop.

So then it comes down to this: you smile at too many men and spend your days alone. You learn how to initiate things without making the first move. You keep your feet flat against the floor and your head on their chests. You count their hearts’ beats and note that they are faster than your own. You’ve learned to control this by now. It only gets easier, you say. You bite your own lip between the words.

New Islands

2009-03-07T18:43:00.002-05:00

The ocean

is small here. It

is something that we forget exists.

It feels almost artificial

to me, someone who

has grown up with beaches

that you can walk on

barefoot;

sand that never gets cold.

Shells and broken glass

lend the sounds of wind chimes

to the little waves. This is something

to look at, not

to immerse yourself in.

This will

not be a baptism.

Flash Fiction

2008-11-27T01:41:00.004-05:00

These were written about a year and a month ago--October 19, 2007--as an exercise in fiction class.

1.
The baby crawled through the kitchen door. In twenty years, he would be learning how to drink fire whiskey without cringing, but right now he's drooling on the tile, luckily.

His mom tries to cook a dinner for six in the tiny kitchen without spilling or tripping. In twenty years, she would be learning how to pay for sixteen years of college and cook only for two, but now she is rushing between the oven and sink, trying not to burn the turkey,

The man is flying his plane over the country. In twenty years he would be receiving a metal akin to a purple heart, but right now he is pressing the button to let loose all hell.

2.
For five years I kept all of my writing safe. All of it was in the bottom drawer. I knew no one would look through it there.

Last night I came home to you reading my journal. Nothing recent (that is still under my pillows) but still mine, from two year ago, when I first moved here.

The neighbors called the cops because of the noise. They thought that you were beating me.

I turned off the smoke detectors this morning.

I didn't want you to read them.

All We Are (formerly titled "At First")

2008-11-20T00:48:00.005-05:00

At nights we would pretend to get
drunk from rose water and rich
colored desserts. We
imagined it was expensive champagne
and that we did not
need to fall in love.

Weeks passed quickly and blurred
into each other, spinning with our
arms out and collapsing at the ends of months.
It wasn’t long
before we forgot the youthful promises
we made in our gleaming intoxication. You
closed your eyes to February
and kissed me and
spring became rushed,
red and orange and unexpected.

It was a long and liquid summer before
we started again, only this
time learning to take the hard stuff, the drinks
our parents saved for holidays. It burned my throat
but you held my hand and we kept at it,
watching how they walked, always
in straight lines, only turning
their heads at attention. We stopped
our spinning and noticed every
hour that went by. Our lips grew
tight and pale. We did not
realize that this was our fate. We found
ourselves fall, not in love,
never,
but into regret.

I am very openly welcoming critiques of this!

from my journal

2008-10-26T22:35:00.006-04:00

10/3
Though we are strangers, he has already seen more of me than you will. He is wearing your shoes and your height.

I am not in love with you anymore but you are in my system. So much a part of me that everything I do still has pieces of you in it. I will not stop missing you.

Part of me hopes that I will run into you; the next time I take the train, sitting here now or somewhere totally unexpected. I know that we have no claims over each other but you did not feel wrong and that is so important.

We will sit three feet away from each other for hours, neither making a bold enough move. I will imagine our life together and he will listen closer to his music. We'll leave together, but not for the same place. My arms are open for him. He is three feet away and will not move any closer.

Couples curled on the few patches of grass, sharing homes with roosting pigeons.

There is no shame in a city like this.

You were a force not to be reckoned with, somehow unyielding in your frailty.

I try to smile honestly because I know that it is beautiful and I know there is a difference but it is so hard when you have left me, so full of sadness.

I am still learning how to forget about you, but everything here is yours. You would have loved it, maybe even loved me, loved who it has made me become.

I don't know why I expected that I could count on you, so fast, so young. You were so much like him in every other way, why should this be any different?

It's not that I'm selfish or even hard-hearted. I'm just never sure when I believe you, or if I ever should any way.

10/4
It is winter and the flowers are struggling to grow. I have forgotten how to tell you I love you I love you I love you I love you.

You are making fun of yourself, making me laugh at your own expense. You keep checking on me, looking back and smiling. I want to feel myself in your arms.

10/5
The streets are wet and empty. Things are starting to smell of mildew and that doesn't make me want you any less.

Time is passing quickly but the months last forever and I lose track of the dates.

10/8
I am not in love with you, but I miss what we had. I miss you because you were such a big part of my life and I still care about you. I hope you are better than the last time I saw you. I hope you are on your way somewhere good. And yes, I hope you miss me or at least think about me from time to time.
Your birthday is coming up. You will be an adult then, but you probably will not have grown up yet. That seems to be how things work.

10/9
I am going to be honest: more often than not, coffee makes me sick. No, I'm not lying; I do like it, but it makes me feel nauseated. But I drink it--for the taste, for the caffeine, for you. I should just stop coming, because the longer we talk, the more fascinated I become. Your age makes you more appealing, lending you something I won't find elsewhere. Not to mention you're damn good looking. Too bad neither of us thought to lie. This could have been absolutely fantastic.

(Not so) secret: I would go home with you if you asked me.

Proof I haven't stopped writing

2008-10-07T19:28:00.001-04:00

just because I'm worried myself, sometimes:

Outside, smoking

2008-09-24T19:45:00.006-04:00

I sit outside smoking, waiting for you to come over and sit next to me. It isn’t likely that you will, but I still expect it.
This is weather that I am not used to but love anyway.
I hope that you understand I don’t always do this. I used to be right and wait inside by the phone, not by streetlights in the cold. But now my hands are dirty from your hobbies and I cough too much for being so young.
I was disappointed when I didn’t hear from you, even though I promised that I didn’t want anything. But you should know that I tend to lie.
I don’t know what you made me lose faith in first: honesty, relationships or people. Either way, I have a hard time believe that much will last. Of course, that could have come from my own experiences and have nothing at all to do with you anyway.
I still hold out hope, though, still look for the boy that might keep me together longer than you did. I sear for you qualities in them, mark off bullets on a list I haven’t yet committed to paper.
I won’t commit though. That would be admitting that you were right, that I miss you and that I never could have taken you for face value. That is just something I cannot do yet.
It hurts—my bad knee, the smoke I spend nights inhaling, wanting you from so far away. When I left I thought things would be easier and there would be less to remind me. But this is where you belong. More than I do anyway.
You have no trouble fitting in and could have made these friends easily. You wouldn’t have struggled.
I am finding comfort in surrounding myself with boys again. I almost forgot to worry, to remember that things ca so easily go bad.
But jealousy moves fast with your kind. Even those without the right hate seeing something that isn’t theirs. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to keep everyone happy, to keep from ruining things too quickly.
But it is happening anyway. Already things are falling apart. And all I can manage is to think of you.

Experience, so far

2008-09-17T22:49:00.003-04:00

I have taken pictures without being in love.
I have met a boy.
His hair is the same color as yours and he listens to your music. He shares it with me the same way that you did. He is shorter and softer but just as inaccessible.
But he lets me sit on his bed and sleep on his floor.
We make the same jokes and surprisingly easy conversations that you and I did.
His friends are skeptical, not without reason, just as yours were.
There is tension and frustration and I already know more about him than most others. It has been less than a week.
There is the long distance girlfriend.
He mocks me the same as you did.
I talk to him the same as I talked to you.
We trade books and music and try to keep up with each other.
His sheets are soft and his hair is long.
I watched him sleep this morning.
I did not think that I would like him like this, like you.

Pas de Deux

2008-09-12T17:59:00.001-04:00

The old man’s hands shook when he handed his change over in exchange for a large yellow sunflower. The girl smiled, thanking him with a slight nod of her head. She smiled at him every Wednesday when stopped at her corner.

He walked slowly down the street, taking his time, what little of it he had left. She watched him until he was a wavering coat and other customers began clearing their throats, calling for her attention.

From time to time she would have suitors, asking what her favourite flower was and then purchasing it, paying much more than she asked or what the wilting blooms were even worth. She always blushed appropriately, accepting their gestures and often, their requests for company.

She was a pretty girl. Youth stayed with her, showing in her cheeks and eyes. She appeared to hold a joy for the world when in all honesty she could hardly say she cared much for most of it.

But she cared for the old man.

She made sure that she gave him the most beautiful, healthiest flower from her cart and she never asked for much. Her eyes sparkled at him, baring her heart, and she hoped that he would return her smiles.

He never did.

In the times between his visits, she fantasized about what the man was like before age had turned him brittle and cold. She imagined that he had been a wonderful lover, taking his lady to the finest places. She closed her eyes during slow moments and saw them dancing together under the moon, everything from waltzes to ballets, all set to wonderfully classical music.

Those who interrupted found her starry eyes and distracted, sighing with contentment. When she went home with the rich men who chased her like bees after pollen, she imagined their arms were the old man’s and that he was holding her tightly for his next dance.

She believed that he was bringing the flowers to the cemetery. Even after she had gone, the old man still cared enough for his lady to bring her everything, including the sun. That was how she thought of the large yellow flowers he bought weekly: as portable suns, reserved only for those who could fill you with the best sort of life.

The man was something constant in the young girl’s life and she cared that he chose her over any of the other vendors he might have favoured instead.

She began seeing a boy regularly as well, although his visits were to her bed and not her flower stand. He brought her favours and showered her with words but his arms did not feel warm and he never showed her those hand-held suns she cherished so much.

She sent the boy empty smiles and tired eyes, but let him stay close to her. She saved the light in her eyes for the old man and poured it into him whenever he came by. He accepted her blossoms and seemed absolutely oblivious to her affections.

The girl could feel her spirit weakening. Her eyes shone less, even for the old man, and she no longer blushed at the men who bought her roses and lilies.

The boy who loved her told the girl that he did not want to wait for her to love him back. He held her in his arms the wrong way and left her a golden locket. She smiled at him sadly, but not because he was going.

The old man continued his routine. The girl continued smiling at him but had begun forcing it a long time ago. He kept his face still and straight throughout the weeks. She longed to feel warm again from the inside.

The old man became sick. When he stopped to purchase his flower from the girl, he could hardly hold onto the stem. She assisted him, wrapping her arms under his, around the old man’s slowly expanding chest.

He leaned into her, letting the girl support his surprisingly small weight. He placed his hands on the girl’s arms and held them tightly. She smiled at him hopefully.

Slowly, in the time that it took for a universe to expand completely, his lips turned up at the corners. He looked into the girl’s eyes and she could feel the life well up from the very bottom of her insides.

She took a small step to help the old man begin making his way again. He countered with an equally small step of his own. Soon, they were turning together, counting an inaudible melody with their almost invisible paces. The girl pressed her ear to the old man’s chest and felt the pulse of his age. She sighed and knew that he was giving her the sun.

Laughter Never to Trust

2008-07-25T22:50:00.003-04:00

Yours was a laughter never to trust.
It crept around corners
and found its way into everything.

I told stories about loves lost
while you whispered
disasters through cracks in the wall.

I'd never been one for ending things
and you hate beginnings,
so we kept everything like lightning:
fast and gone too soon.

Nothing ever got done.

It was always
half started through the seasons
and years,
totally static.

We were waiting for a shock.

Nothing But You

2008-07-25T22:42:00.006-04:00

We spent fall comparing
guns and graffiti
and wearing diamonds around our necks.

I felt like you weren't
supposed to become a man.
Not now.
Not at all.

I learned too soon
about the tainted bodies and faces
covering your wall
and that if you did
become a man
I would join the ranks of those girls
no matter how hard
I tried to stay
barefoot and dreaming.

You told me
that I wasn't allowed to grow up.
Not now.
Not ever.

You said you were always
going to protect me,
no matter what,
and the boys who waited
next to our tree house
wouldn't be allowed to
stain me as long as you were around.

And you always would be.

I spent the summer
listening to the doors creak
open and closed
and whispers fly through windows
and watching the boys get
impatient, waiting on the lawn.

You were swept away
by the faithless girls
who seemed to have stepped
off your wall to steal you.

I learned how
to lean on brick walls
and fences with the waiting boys
who told me that your promises
had been nothing but you
making down payments
on guilt.

To Know the Truth

2008-07-25T22:34:00.005-04:00

It was a sticky, unpleasant shock. He was going to stay with her, despite our obvious connection. Even after two years, he didn't know it though. I wonder if he has a sanctuary to hide from the old memories he'd rather not have.

Untitled 1

2008-07-25T22:31:00.005-04:00

I stopped on the path, twenty feet from the cabin. He kept going until he realized I wasn't walking any more. "What?" he asked, not understanding why I'd stopped. "Shhh..."
I had never seen fireflies before. Back home, the streets were too filled with taillights and traffic gunning by to let the little things flicker and dance.
I counted their flashes, trying to find a message, but nothing came out.
"They're searching for their mates," he told me, and kept walking away.

from Love Notes (a postmodern story)

2008-06-08T21:29:00.003-04:00

   She kept going to the back of the narrow space to where she kept her nicer dresses. If Paul came home to Juniper in the casual linen dresses, often stained with the jobs of the day, he would be appalled. She took a green dress off its hanger and slid it smoothly over herself.
   She reemerged to be greeted by James, her older son, looking up at her with her own doe eyes. He held up a toy tank, from which a part had snapped off. She smiled gently and bent down to be eyelevel with the little boy.
   “Do you need mommy to fix your tank, sweetie?”
   James nodded slowly and pushed the toy toward his mother. She took it from him and turned it over in her hands, finding the slot for the broken piece. She noticed that there was a small man painted on the window, smiling as he operated the machine. She closed her eyes for a moment and wondered if that was how he had looked, happy while engulfed in such a big, scary thing.
   She opened her eyes again and put the pieces back together. She held the tank out for her son to take without bending down or looking at him again.
   “Thank you mommy!” He hugged her legs tightly and ran back into the living room.
   June nodded and bent over to reach under the bed for a pair of black high heels that Paul liked on her. She put them on without sitting and made her way back into the kitchen.

2.
   With nothing else to do, she slid from room to room, brushing her fingers against the couch, a sculpture, the fridge, a chair, until she reached the bedroom. She sat on the bed where she had the night before and looked at the spot where Paul slept. There was no evidence that such a mountain of a man ever laid in that bed, the sheets were so perfectly smooth. The bed felt vacuous without his body filling it.
   She got up and smoothed the sheets before stepping into the closet. She liked how crowded it was. She was small enough to just fit in with the clothes and shoes and boxes.
   She traveled through jackets and ties and dresses to the very back wall and sat next to a pile of shoeboxes, most of them empty. She counted third from the bottom and pulled it out slowly, so as not to topple over the rest of the stack. She removed the lid and placed it on her other side and looked at a pile of letters that were starting to age.
More carefully than she did anything else, she took the first letter out of the box and unfolded it. Her eyes started skimming over the page and it was just a moment before a smile parted her lips and curled up comfortably. She looked like a little girl reading her first ever love note and she might as well have been.

Summer

2008-06-04T00:46:00.007-04:00

1. (Glowing)

We were drunk.

Drunk on

summer and

sun and

stars in a clear sky.

They made us dizzy.

There were

sparklers and

pinwheels and

firecrackers that blew

up the red

hot July sky

and filled our eyes with flashes

They made me cry.

We were drunk.

Drunk on

dandelion wine and

chlorine and

bathing suits.

There were stripes and

stars and

blue,

white,

red and

gold-yellow bursts

overhead that kept us

dizzy

all through the seasons.

2. (Fading)

The sun is turning the sky purple

and there are explosions of leaves overhead.

There's a boy with a glowing hand and glowing eyes

drinking dandelion wine straight

from the bottle.

He's staring at the sun and holding my knee.

In the twilight, he's closer

to oblivion, where he'll learn to glow

all over.

It's the end of summer and I can smell fall in the air.

It's the end of something new and I want to glow too.

But the boy won't share his liquid gold

that holds him fast with strings of reality,

and instead, his grip on my knee tightens.

The sun slips behind the hills in sync

with the last line of light slipping through his teeth.

The glow of his eyes leaves then too,

lending itself to the stars,

who shine for me now instead.

3. (Evening)

Three months after

we finished playing out games

and lighting fires

our hands still

felt like dirt and

smelled like rubber.

When we entered the October country

we knew we couldn't last much longer:

You with your Catholic Saints and

Roman candles;

Me with my fireworks and

waterfalls.

Your old dandelion wine did nothing

to protect us or keep us

together anymore.

Your hand had lost its place on my knee.

I was too drawn to the magic of fall

and you wanted to live in summer forever.

So cold winds carried me off

along with purple leaf explosions

and golden dreams

while you stayed behind

in the soft grass of the past

sipping your spirits, pretending

I was still there.

In the winter

I'll light a candle

for the dead or the dying,

and listen to the wind

whisper your name.