I saw my father in the dying of the dog.
It was a slow, intentional, graceful death
that stretched itself out over months,
all the while breaking daddy’s heart.
The dog began to walk slowly,
as if he were dragging his feet through honey.
Each step was lifted, suspended above the ground a moment,
placed gingerly back.
Then, the lump on the back of his leg appeared,
boiling up and presenting itself in what seemed like a moment.
After that, the sleeping.
He had always enjoyed basking in the Alabama sun out on the deck, but it became his only activity.
Sleep, eat, sleep, drink, sleep. That was his routine.
He began to ignore the little dog,
growling at her when she wanted him to play.
After a while, his light naps became deep sleep at all hours of the day. We often had to knock loudly on the window
just to make sure he would wake up again.
One day when we went to feed him,
he didn’t come at the sound of the food striking the metal bowl.
As soon as we touched him, we knew.
He left soundlessly, forever frozen in his favorite position,
curled up innocently by the window.
My father became a strange parallel to him.
When the dog slowed,
Daddy slowed.
His thoughts were soupier, taking longer to formulate into full sentences when he spoke.
He often forgot to eat, and when he remembered,
he rarely finished his meal before moving on to something else.
He spent most of his time in his red recliner, lying perfectly still.
He snapped at innocent questions and simple gestures addressing him, and could no longer tolerate loud talking or music.
He withered as the dog withered, slowly but surely.
They both grayed around the eyes,
a marking of wisdom, but also of age.
They were one soul split into two bodies, though one found a peaceful escape.
Daddy stayed here.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 5:59 PM UTC
forgive me, but i cannot comprehend
why little bird, age 9
should ever need to understand
the historical origins of terrorism
the significance of the Socratic method
the inner workings of microeconomics
or the implications of nuclear war.
no, my little bird, age 9
can hide right behind her golden ringlets
and sunshine eyes
for as long as she wishes.
she learns the politics of friendship
and the importance of kindness
and that's all we truly need
to get by.
she doesn't see the bigger picture,
no.
she cannot empathize with the suffering of nations
(she flies too high above it all to see).
she doesn't see all of the the ******** either.
not all ignorance is blissful,
but little bird's is.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
clearly there is damage
in the mechanics
of our interlaced hearts.
savor me
roll my words around in your mouth
like marbles
and dream of the taste of my skin
and the bite of winter
on the tip of my nose and lips.
do not break apart my words
like ice
still, staring, fragmented in anger;
do not tear me
from afar, with your words
assumed unheard, but screamed
to the ends of the earth.
do not assume i am unfrozen
fluid and unattached
to the sound of your voice.
remember me
in lace and wonder and December
in beauty and imperfection;
or forget
that i am far, far away
in pain, from missing and being unmissed.
or that i exist, altogether.
clearly there is damage
in the mechanics
of our infinity
wrinkled and unraveled before us.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
Easily, easily she crept into my mind.
She smelled of the crunch of autumn leaves under boots, or rain on pavement, or possibly both together. I can’t distinguish between the two in the weakness of my memory. I’ve always wished there was a way to capture a smell like a picture, just to savor now and again. I would replay her entrance over and over in my mind if I could. I admit this one regret, though I try never to regret what brings me to the place in which I am still standing. I regret not savoring my own picture of her first appearance into my consciousness.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
We began in a place
where growth is purposefully prevented.
Weeds struggle through cracks,
reaching desperately for sunlight
only to be flattened in passing.
Parking lots
are for coming and going.
For undeveloped beginnings
and unexplained parting.
The gravel catches snippets of sentences,
and a whole conversation ever so often.
It is not meant to see
the middle of the story,
the falling of a heart.
We began in parking lots.
The gravel listened closely
as we discussed our aspirations
and learned each other
piece by piece.
The cement soaked up every detail:
our first few kisses beside my car,
the first whispered "i love you,"
the development of our intimacy
haloed by a streetlamp.
We grew in the comfort of asphalt,
of parking lines and late night love.
We stretched our hearts
to grow in the sun
(or, rather, in the moonlight)
and let our bodies lead,
enchanted.
We are the gravel's dream,
our love forever captured
in parking lots and starlight.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
"Please, just come lie down beside me.
I'm so tired.
You don't even have to
touch me.
Just be here, nearby."
ripped/my/clothes/off.
sensual, sensitive, wild.
hands down my ribs,
across the hills and valleys of my/bare/chest
slowly, on the curve of my leg,
the warm small of my back.
"Can I just hold you
like last night?
Wrap my arms around you?"
clawing/scratching/loving
by the light of the moon.
frantic sighing
my hands caressing/kissing/tasting/experiencing
every inch of his beautiful body.
succumbing to the dizzying reality.
"That would be just fine."
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
You're asleep, but I'm having a little fantasy.
We are going to Paris (of course) and we just decided to go. No planning, no serious packing. Just got our stuff together and went for a few days. We fly through the night, and I wake up with my head on your shoulder (like Gordo and Lizzie) and we eat plane breakfast (which for some reason involves sausage links and orange juice in this little dream) and land at Charles de Gaulle at 10 AM.
We get off the plane and go find our hotel, which is kind of far from the heart of the city but we like it cause that's where the really cute eclectic apartments and shops are. And you buy me red roses that night and every day we take long walks all over the place.
We do touristy stuff while we are there, and you take me to all of the places you went to with your family and we even play soccer in front of the Eiffel Tower one night, for your old times sake.
But mostly we make love a few times a day and go get beautiful meals and I speak French to the waiters and you think it's **** We go to a little bakery down the street from us every morning and night and just have an obscene amount of baguettes in our room. We sleep with all of the windows open (it's summer) and the light of the Eiffel Tower is visible at night, far off in the distance.
Some nights, we make love on the balcony of the hotel and then just talk forever, and I'm so perfectly happy there in your arms on the balcony of our little quaint hotel in Paris just for the hell of it.
And I'm so ******* glad you're there with me, even if it's just in my head.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
"can you get your shoe off of that chair please?"
i've been lost in your magic. i had forgotten.
still, i don't get in trouble. ever.
you laugh. it makes me laugh, out loud. unfiltered laughter.
he's still standing over us, waiting for me to move.
he's awkward. so tall he might blow away in the wind.
adult acne. needs a shave. eyebrow arched in distaste.
and we are invincible. untouchable.
frighteningly adult and unbearably childish.
fast forward
20 minutes.
"i'm not letting go."
my heart bursts a little in my chest.
you made me beg for that hug
but i melt into your arms all the same.
i like the way your clothes smell
and the way your cheek scratches mine.
i like the shape of your hands
when they are on me, touching, holding.
it's not perfect, but it's whole.
and i haven't been whole in years.
we were whole. that was whole, there.
frighteningly adult and unbearably childish.
perfectly exhilarating.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC
i wonder what it's like
to love in another language.
do the words for it
(call me when you get home, be careful)
(i'm so proud of you)
(stay)
feel different as they form in your mouth?
do they roll off the tongue the same way
(sometimes too easily, hastily)
or do they get stuck
and refuse to come out?
and does your heart still swell
at the same phrases
(you're beautiful)
(i want to see you)
(i'm falling for you)
when the words don't sound
as simple, as sweet?
maybe another language would be better.
a few languages, a few colors, a few different styles.
different accents. maybe a picture of my heart
bursting at the seams.
because sometimes
"i love you"
doesn't cover it all.
for now, though,
for here
i adore you
my heart belongs to you
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU SO
in every language, every color, every font.
anywhere, nowhere, everywhere.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
I’m going to come right out and say that at 9:52 PM on November 25, 2014, you are on my brain. Maybe because I’m in bed and my mind wanders before I fall asleep, maybe because you haven’t called me back in two hours and maybe because I have weird feelings about you. Who knows? Not me, obviously.
What’s on my brain, really, is next Monday. Because I don’t think I’ll have the nerve to ask if you want to hang out sometime this week (it’s Thanksgiving) and the only time I know I’ll see you is Monday. It’s that crazy, insane feeling that you get where your heart screams a little because it seems like forever. But it’s also a good, secure feeling because it’s concrete. You’ll be there, I’ll be there. I love things that are predictable and easy to anticipate. Things that leave clues and drop hints and leave answers lying around for me to find.
But what’s driving me crazy is that you give no clues. I thought I was a really good at reading people, and I feel terrible for thinking that since it’s completely unjustified. My unjustified assumptions are my fatal flaw, really. It’s why I fall so hard, I think. I assume that the other person will stick around and love me the way I want to love them. Because most of the time, all I really want is to love hard and love well for a long time. You, though, I have no read on you at all. I can’t tell if you want to stick around or if you want me to stick around or if you really just want me to go away and leave you alone. I wish you’d tell me. But then again, I wish you wouldn't because as much as I act like I don’t care, I do. I care a lot. Another fatal flaw.
I’m listening to this really great song called “From Afar” by Vance Joy and it’s touching my heart. It made me want to write whatever this is. The main line is “I always knew I would love you from afar.” That’s sort of how I feel right now. I love awkwardly from your passenger seat, from across the booth, from the end of my row in class when I have to try too hard not to look at you. And yeah, love is a strong word. But hey, it’s in the song, so why not?
At this point, though, I just feel lucky to even know you. You’re one of the most incredibly talented people I’ve ever met. Your humor gets me every time, and I love the way that you listen to what people say. That sounds simple, but listening is such a skill. Listening and understanding and acting like you give a **** are so hard to master, and you do them all with ease. I think that’s what makes you such a good conversationalist. And there’s something about hugging you that’s making me tear up a little right now **** I’m weird, I know). But I feel really small a lot of the time. And having you reach out and pay attention to me, even for just a few seconds, makes me feel so incredibly lucky. Because if someone as wonderful as you is willing to hold me for a minute and make me feel special, then there is hope for the happy girl in me.
I honestly could write you a short novel about how great I think you are, but I don’t even know how you feel about me yet. I could just be that creepy girl that won’t leave you alone. For now, I’m content to be the girl that loves a little from afar. It’s an honor just to fall for you, even if I land hard.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC