Tourists always bring back momentos from their journies for the ones they love. Sometimes, it is the smallest, cheapest trinket that means the most. The one that says ' I thought of you. Only for a moment, but for that moment you consumed my thoughts and I could not(more) leave the shop without a reminder of you.' (less)
I want one more day here. This place with no boundaries is not my house, is yours, but feels like mine. Mine is too restricting: I much prefer this sense of yours mine ours that creaks up from the floorboards to the tempo of our footfalls as we wander(more) this empty house together. I want one more day.
I have had too many already, I know. You have too. We spent too long in only each other's company and there are no walls anymore and I am going to have to start watching what I say. I have things I cannot tell even you and I do not want them aired now. Not here. Not with lazy days hanging around us like a blanket of peace and drawing our already matching frequencies into almost perfect resonance. I will have to face the weight I carry in a few hours, when the door opens and the others walk in. I don't want to.
I want one more day. One more golden day of not having to check which of my opinions I state, how far I let someone go before forcing them back, how exactly I phrase every thought that finds its way out of my mouth so that I can continue to be accepted.
One more day is too much to ask, but a few more hours isn't. So I will remain here on your couch and I will let my words flow almost freely and I will bask in this temporary lifting of checks and balances that you have given me. (less)
We're in space, all of us really, clinging to this lump of rock as it hurtles around the sun in a twirling frenzy of motion. We, by extension, are all careening around the giant ball of gas that holds us on a circular path, keeps us from rocketing away(more) into the dark abyss beyond. But its beautiful out there, I know. Past the edge of our world hang billions of bright points of light, hundreds of thousands of rocky spheres that could be called home, innumerable spills of stars that dance into myriads of unnamed galaxies, all suspended in an eternal alluring night. It is easy, so easy, to get lost in swirling stars and wisps of nebulae. Even with gravity pulling me back, I fear I may float away from this Earth if I don't hold on tight. It is so easy to forget that the twinkling promise of distant planets is only to look at, never to touch. It's easy to forget that I belong down here. The Earth has her anchor, but I think I need something closer to home than a star to keep me from drifting. Can I hold onto you? (less)
She wore a smear of red lipstick, red like love, and when she kissed him it smudged all over his lips and got on his chin. When he said goodbye, it smudged on the back of his hand, too.
When she wore it with her red dress, they said(more) she was being bold and sexy. She blew them a kiss and played her part.
When she wore it with jeans and a t shirt she found many men and a few women who wanted her to smear it across their lips as well. She did as she pleased; many were happy with her choices. Many more were not.
She wore it in picture after picture, her mother remarking on how bold and unladylike it looked. Her father winked at her and told her was red was for the ladies of his generation. She smirked and told both of them that it was for her.
She wiped it off on a paper towel: trails of red across perforated paper, red like pain, red like blood. Red like warmth and fire and healing. A stamp of her pressed lips. When her eyes returned to her mirror, they reflected her fatigue.
It is only through
That we may bear witness
To the brilliance of another's soul
Understanding cannot be gleaned without
In turn, accaptence cannot be offered
Without weakness shown
Insecurities embraced without judgement
Two souls walking a road
May sweep away shadows of doubt
Through the cracks in one's armor
It is possible for another
To reach out,
Through their own fissures,
And grab tightly
Linking, if only briefly,
Through a medium that cannot be named
To form a bond of light and love and laughter
Such a bond
It hadn't been easy. It had been so hard to get this far, to do so well, and then to fall so spectacularly flat. It had been a rocky road that lead to a steep slope with no flat surface in sight and here she was on her knees(more) in the bed of sharp gravelly stone fragments bruised and bleeding and out of aid. When she looked up, she couldn't see the summit. But she clenched her fists over her bent knees and pushed upward. She was broken, yes. But she was not beyond repair. Besides, all the best heroes are forged in fire. She was on her feet now, stumbling onward, stumbling upward. She would be the hero this time. (less)
It was hidden in a space of silence, my indecency. In the way I assumed that a twenty three year old college girl was a waitress while her twin brother seemed like a chef.
"I'm in finances," she told me, "he's the bus boy."
I walked away humbled, promisin(more)g myself, I will do better next time. I will keep an open mind.
It was in my tightening muscles when I clutched my purse closer as a man the color of mahogany walked past.
He never looked at me.
I will do better next time, I decided. I will do right by the next man.
In the raising of my brow, the curling of my lip, the reaction of disgust at seeing a teenager's pocket lining peek out from the bottom of the leg of her shorts, I displayed it. She should be more careful, or something bad will happen to her. There was no thought to tell her that if something bad did happen, it would not be her fault. No consideration that the blame should lay with the one who caused it, only the one who might not go where I deemed far enough out if her way to stop it. When I thought of the flaw in my reasoning, I told myself I would do better next time.
I wish I could hate you.
For what you've done, what you're still doing.
Oh, I WISH I could hate you.
Maybe it's your blood, running through your veins, through mine. Though I don't think so. I can hate him and his blood is my blood is your blood.(more) Maybe it's your words. Spewing from your mouth in a vile stream that courses through my mind and finds articulation only in your mouth. The words I won't let pass my lips that make themselves so at home on your tongue. The words that keep me up at night.
I wish that by some miracle, our shared biology did not mean you saw me as a mirror. I wish you did not take my shortcomings personally, finding anger enough for the both of us. I wish I didn't drag your words to my room with me, and play them over and over again. I wish the anger in your eyes was not what haunts me in my nightmares.
I wish I wish I wish.
I wish I could hate you, but I am too much like you for that. (less)
I can feel it seeping into my clothes, the wet pasting fabric to skin. I owned a raincoat, of course. And an umbrella. Neither of them is too far away for me to justify leaving them at home, but I have anyway. I can hear her words vaguely far(more) off but right inside my ear at the same time, calling memories of my much smaller self being gently cajoled into a fitted plastic shield as her graying hair fell around her face and almost hid her small smile and tired eyes:
“Put your coat on, you’ll catch pneumonia. That wasn't fun the first time around; wouldn't you like to avoid it this time?”
I would. But lying in bed for awhile with my lungs crackling and eyes drooping with fatigue is nothing compared to feeling the warm water weighing down my clothes in a way I swear is just how she used to hug me. She would have given anything to breathe freely without that god awful oxygen drizzle, I know, and it almost hurts to be aware that I would throw something so precious away in a heartbeat if it meant I could bury my face in her shoulder and inhale her scent just one more time instead of standing on wet asphalt in wet clothes and taking just a few more breaths of the musk of dusty spring rain that comes so close to her smell. But I can’t bring myself to regret basking in this echo of my memories with her. Not even close. Not even if my lungs crackle for months.