Been trying so hard, You make it harder,
Been crying for too long, how do you do this?
I try and I try to remind you of me,
But it's all vain, your stoic.
Why is my heart so soft?
For every wrong you do, it makes it right.
I'm tired, bruised and wounded,
But your words are like my bandage,
Gentle at times, but not too often,
For it's your words that leave me battered but still,
I think about you, dream about you.
Now as a tear roles down my cheek,
I'm used to that sensation,
For every tear has something to say,
This last one just asked me, "Will he ever see me again?"
Waiting for you words, I'm used to that too,
But once, just once is all I ask for,
That you say to me, conscious and sub conscious,
That you miss me too.
Jerry and Elaine are sitting in Monk’s diner on the Upper West Side.
The place still has that old Manhattan feeling: a film of grease on the
booths, pink packets of Spelnda at every table, and the waitresses, in
their frumpy yellow uniforms, have no manners and less patience.
Jerry is lifting a white mug to his mouth, slurping milk-diluted coffee
between his lips, “Y’know Elaine, it’s fine to say you believe in nothing,
but even nothing is something.” Elaine is only half-listening, all
morning she’s been worried about the rumored round of layoffs
eminent at Pendant Publishing, where she’s been reading
manuscripts for the last seven years, and she doesn’t have much
interest in another one of Jerry’s philosophical observations. “But
Jerry,” she says, in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, “if nothingness
awaits us; if when we die we simply cease to exist, then that is true
nothingness. The absence of an afterlife really does imply that there’s
nothing." Jerry raises his eyebrows, lulls another sip of coffee around
his mouth, and mulls this over. For a few mornings in a row he’s been
waking with a new sense of smallness that he’s never felt before; even
in a city as cold as New York, Jerry had never thought much about his
infinitesimal place in the chaotic clockwork of the universe until
recently. “Okay, so maybe you’re right, when we’re dead we’re
nothing. But if you asked me what I did today I would tell you I did
nothing, but what I really did was wake up, and read the paper, and
come here to meet you for coffee – that’s all something. Therefore,
even if we’re not aware that we’re dead, even if there’s no afterlife,
being dead is still a state of being.” Elaine sighs, her mind is off on
another island – if she does get laid off will she have to downsize her
apartment? Or worse, find a roommate? She takes a deep breath,
wondering if there’s a way she can facilely change the subject when,
much to her relief, George walks into the diner. He’s wearing a red
winter parka, which strikes both Elaine and Jerry as odd given that it’s
sixty degrees and sunny outside. He slides into the booth next to
Elaine, runs his hand across his bald head, and in a tone of existential
bereavement moans, “It’s not working for me Jerry, it’s just not
working.” “What is it that isn’t working?” “It all became very clear to
me that today the every decision I’ve made in my life has been wrong.
My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every
instinct I have, whether it be something to wear, something to eat,
has been wrong…” Jerry and Elaine look at their friend, unsure of what
to say. At that moment one of the waitress approaches the table, gives
George a knowing look, and in her two pack a day voice says, “Tuna on
toast, coleslaw, cup of coffee?” George looks up at her, he’s about to
say yes when suddenly an alien impulse stops him. He crinkles his
forehead and says, “No. I always have tuna on toast. Nothing has ever
worked out for me with tuna on toast…” The waitress, looking slightly
bemused by George's neurotic tone, pulls the pencil from behind her
ear and the order pad from her apron pocket. “I want the complete
opposite of tuna on toast. Chicken salad… on rye… untoasted… with a
side of potato salad… and a cup of tea!” The waitress scribbles this
down, gives a quick nod, and hurries back towards the kitchen.
Elaine, shaking her head and laughing, says “Well, there’s no telling
what will come of this.” Jerry is half-smiling, his elbow propped up on
the table, his hand holding his chin. “Let me ask you something
George, do you think nothing is something?” George stares back at
Jerry silently, not sure how to respond. Elaine grabs a hold of George’s
arm, squeezing it with a measure of alarm and says, “George,”
pointing toward the bar, “that woman keeps looking at you.” George
looks in the direction of her point at the tall, thin, blonde woman in a
powder blue dress, her long alabaster legs extending down to a pair
of black spike-heeled shoes. “So?” George says, and Elaine, in a tone
of gentle encouragement responds, “So go talk to her.” George rolls his
eyes – his friend should know by now that his uneasiness in crowds
and lack of self-confidence renders such a suggestion as erroneous.
“Well here’s your chance to try the opposite,” Jerry interjects, “instead
of tuna salad and being intimidated by women; chicken salad and
walking right up to them. If every instinct you have is wrong then the
opposite would have to be right.” George leans back, smirks, “You’re
right,” he tugs on the lapels of his parka adjusting it to his shoulders,
“normally I would sit here and do nothing and regret it for the rest of
the day, so now I will do the opposite and I will do something!” With
that he jumps to his feet, and with an unshakeable pit of trepidation
being to cross the dirty dinner floor toward the leggy blond. The walk
was only several feet, but somehow that expanse felt much greater,
recalling the nervousness with which he would cross a middle school
gymnasium floor to ask one of the girls to dance. “Excuse me,” he said
to the blonde, feeling like he had an anvil crushing down on his chest,
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking in my general
direction,” She smiles, pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear
and through her red lipstick lips says, “Yes. You just ordered the same
exact lunch as me.”
It happens when you look outside and see paintings.
Paintings, instead of reality.
The world is just
the right distance
Remember all these days,
for it's the beginning of always.
Here is a promise.
for persisting though life so long alone,
in the possibility and achievement of true love.
to ignore and simply rise above the pain of the past.
which at once binds two souls and yet severs prior ties.
of the chance taken and the challenges that lie ahead.
For two will always be stronger than one,
like a team braced against the world.
Trust that Love shall always be the guiding force in our lives.
For even saying words
"I Love You"
is just a mere formality.
An announcement to the world
of feelings long held.
Promises made long ago..
In the scared spaces of our hearts.
Today's the day..
Where all the
Where doubts are relinquished
and worries diminished.
Here we are so long later from meeting
and being total strangers to now being all this.
We both have been through lots together in this short time.
We've braved through some tough days but also we've had some of the greatest days together too.
The best part,
The happiest part,
I know we have so many more to come.
This is without a doubt one of the craziest and biggest decisions I've ever made,
But.. I have never wanted something or someone this bad in my life, so it's you —
You're the one I want standing next to me when all my dreams come true.
I'd make this choice only if it was with you.
We've earned this babe,
everything up to this moment.
We're one huge step closer and soon,
I'll be seeing you.
I Love You.
The things that I never ever told you
And all the smiles that are never ever, gonna be
All the wounds that are forever gonna scar me
For all the ghosts that are forever gonna haunt me
i don't want you to be
just another song
i never quite learned all the words to
i want to memorize
the vocals of your vertebrae
the harmony in holding your hand
the symphony under your skin
the lyrics on your lips
i want to scream you with my windows down
and hum you as i brush my teeth
your verses coursing through my veins
and your bridge stuck between my teeth
i want to know all of you
the way you know every nuance to your favorite song
i want to trace your jawline with my lips to brand new
and feel your hand in mine to tigers jaw
don't be just another song
i never quite memorized
that runaway's life
cut short of finding true home
instead a odyssey
of heart and mind forged
inside this extended mull
knowing no end
..where the land petered out
narrowing to nothing
where cold tides
always running out and in
on top of each other
and are hard to tell apart
they don't even matter
unattended thin stretch
he stays brooded upon
allowing him to run no further
..his unfolding life
into the swift gulf stream
pulling him down into the rip
one day it is as dangerous as hell
the following day
becoming the safe place
where all his visions toss and roll
calmly out to sea
something either ended or began here long ago
but i don't remember which
but it is enough to just be
he says with half a care
his voice lulls in low tone
old as the atlantic now
looking back over his shoulder
he is reconciled to all the other places
that might have been
just as remote
of a possibility
as this one his life places in
but the runaway will always be here
as perpetual as the shift in the dunes
that purple silhouette again
up beach, following the sunset
as far as it can go
my shattered heart.
Everyone who cared left.
The people who I loved the most
Just walked right out the door.
I've been alone for far too long now,
So much pain and anger inside.
All I want is one person
Who can help me make it out alive.
Over and over again
I tell myself I should just disappear.
Wouldn't the world be better off
With one less soul to heal?
© Fully Copyrighted, all rights reserved. Rebekah Fleck.
When I think of you,
And I think of me,
I think of the tides.
Because whenever we drift apart,
We will always meet again.
You are the ebb and I am the flow.
We may be flung oceans apart
by cracks in the head and rips
in the heart
And flooded with grief –
a lava-storm that pierced our lungs
(and our tears may pour out just as easily)
The moon governs the tides.
They are her children:
She hugs them close
and spins them in silver-silk (fairy dust?)
so they are never far away, not really.
They will always meet again.
So when I miss you,
When you think the rain is too much to withstand,
When you believe the sky is too heavy for the ocean to hold,
When you feel your lungs are pierced and the sea is rising in your throat,
Close your eyes and hear the stars’ lullaby:
The moon is calling you.
You are the ebb and I am the flow
and we will always meet again.
Maybe I am a crybaby. Maybe I am the person that feels twice as hard because she has a father that doesn't feel anything and maybe I love too much because I watched 2 parents that didn't know how to do it but they pretended because l talked to myself since I was too young to understand why the sky is blue and maybe the things I said scared them. Maybe I made up friends, not for the sake of having some, but for the sake of knowing that at least they understand and at least they won't judge me because I scratched my legs until I bled and they don't know that I'm making up all these happy stories of vacations I've never been on so I don't feel so sad in school while everyone talks about what they did over the summer because all mom and dad ever did was scream at each other run from their problems while I drew in my room. Maybe I grew out of my imaginary friends because I'm not even worth their imaginary time and their imaginary presence the imaginary way they pretended to care. Maybe I called my dad even though I know what he did because I still loved him because he's still my fucking dad and he loved his son and he wouldn't tell him that it's wrong to break baby birds' necks and it's wrong to sneak into your sister's room and hurt her. Maybe he hasn't picked up on the fact that life is a big cycle, but you can't let your child hurt because your father let you hurt and his father let him hurt. Maybe I left long voicemails talking about one day being able to see him without a supervisor because I hated the way she wrote everything I said down, including the time I cried because he wouldn't stop prying me about if my mother would let us go out of state together. Maybe I don't need razors and cigarettes because my body isn't even worth the pain at this point. Or, maybe I'm just a coward who can't face death or who doesn't want to hurt more than she already does. Maybe I love too many sick people. Maybe I love too many normal people. Maybe everyone's sick and I just don't realize it yet. Maybe I self-loathe too often, maybe I shouldn't have said those things to people I thought gave a fuck,; maybe it's a dream and I'll wake up and be five again. Maybe I don't want to be five again because being five was more hell than being alive. Maybe we wish some people we love were dead because it's too painful to know that they are somewhere loving some stranger when they couldn't fucking call their own child back. But I don't know. I don't know a thing. Not a damn thing. Maybe my ghosts sing because they've got nothing fucking better to do, because their fists just slide through every wall they try to punch. Maybe the dead don't rise because there's something about this life that makes Hades look like paradise I don't know. I don't know a damn thing. Maybe the wolf is howling at what the moon took from him. Maybe the stars are self-conscious and don't like to be stared at. Maybe we're always alone. Maybe we're always fucking alone. But I don't know. I do not know a damn thing.
She gently closed her eyes and guided his hand up her thigh
Holding her breath
Trying to block out the part that comes next
Was she doing this out of anger
In spite of someone
Her father perhaps
Or was it genuine
Because sluts just enjoy the name calling
They look forward to guys ignoring them once they've had their fun
It couldn't be
She wanted to prove something
That she was independent
That she was all grown up now
And her father had missed his chance
Being over protective was no longer an option
There was nothing left to protect
She had been touched
She had been hurt
She had been alone
He wasn't there for any of that
It drove her mad
So if she gently closed her eyes and guided his hand up her thigh
And blocked out the part that came next
She would have just a few minutes go by
Without the thought of what she could have been
If he had been there
Just a few minutes of relief