Friday, January 30, 2009

" is but a dream..."

that you were my first love
was just dumb luck
a technicality
you were ahead of me

that you were my first love
was just dumb, dumb, stupid luck
a technicality
you will always be ahead of me...

so why'd I have to practice on you?
so why'd I have to practice on you?


curiously, i knew it wouldn't last forever--
your affection, as well as the depression
that set in as you walked out.
it was just too selfish, that love of mine
(sometimes, i wonder if it was love at all)
too much idol-worship, too little self-esteem,
too much i just want you to be the one.
i knew it wouldn't last forever.

once upon a time, these words made me cry
like, in a ball, all five feet, nine inches of me,
curled up as tight as newborn eyes pre-sight.
once, last march, i sat at the table in my kitchen
in the town you forever changed for me
and i asked the muggy air and sun-lit clouds
why exactly, i had to practice my selfish, idiotic, over-indulgent
brand of love on you,
caribbean god,
why exactly did it have to be you?

my answer never came, nope,
not in a booming voice accompanied by thunder,
and not in the form of you
ending your engagement
and showing up in front of my door,
hands full of yellow roses,
with that crooked, birthmarked smile of yours.
nope, my answer never came that way,
but in the whispers of God,
in the little moments when my tears
turned to smiles
and my smiles, to laughter
over the beauty in my folly that once was everything i wanted.

now i have my answer,
and there was never any dumb luck involved
in the fact that you were first.
for your instantaneous kindness
and belief in me
when even i lacked the confidence that i had anything to offer the world
was the most positive of tests
i could ever look to assign another man.

and maybe that selfish, freshman love
could have blossomed beautifully had it been given time
it was not meant to have
or maybe it would have ended badly
as it did already
but despite the fact
that you no longer care
to ever read another thing i may ever say to you
for you, about you, from you, or because of you,
because of you
i finally learned the ferocity
of the immature love
i had so desperately wanted
and now regard solely in after-thoughts.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

one week, and a day later

I'm so fucking nervous.

I inhale--snhhhhhhh--and I exhale--phfffffff--in the driver's seat.

I hope no one can see me right now.

My hands are suffering from a severe case of influenza. One second, they are freezing, and the next, they are perspiring.

Fuck, I hope no one is looking at me right now.

I check my lip gloss in the semi-darkness, and my heart is palpitating. I know salvation is right around the corner, but Lord, if I don't pass out before then.

And then, I see it. Your car pulls around, hidden only for a second by the "drive thru."

You pull into the spot next to me, as I hoped you would. I fumble with my phone, finding myself incapable of simply placing it in my purse.

I send up my last, quick prayer, and I open my door. You're walking around the backside of my car.

Lord, please don't let me fall.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

dreams for summer in January

I watch the people's images dance before me.

Sitting in this same brown chair that many asses have touched, day in and day out, I am watching the people move in and out the center door, but I can't see them.

The lenses in my Versace frames are clear, and attuned to my latest prescription of imminent partial-blindness, but I can't see the people.

My heart longs for silence, for privacy, for the co-worker who always stands close enough to my computer to read the things I'm attempting to write to myself, to go away.

I stare through the clear windows to the muted sunshine outside, as my mind tries to drip back into the comfort of childhood.

The waking to the fresh scent of cut grass in June; the far-away hum of the lawnmower; nudging me awake gently, like a younger sibling, scared you'll be angry when they wake you.

The prickle of bare feet on scalding concrete; the smell of sunscreen and chlorine on a 95 degree day.

The feel of my hair coming loose from its bow or braids, flying free in front of my face like black strands of seagrass; waving majestically with the water's every movement. I never liked the restriction of a swimming cap.

The impatience of popping grapes and drinking Capri Suns during Adult Swim; the excitement of making it through an entire two hours without the pool being shut down for threat of rain or lightning.

This is the first time since my childhood that I have longed for the tranquility and locational distortion of watching my strands of hair float like seaweed underwater; for the feeling of the water easing by me as I stroke from one side of the pool to the other.

Simply: I wish I were swimming.

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