It's 10:55 on December 27th and I swear that I will be able to forget the constellation freckles on your arms and how you shoved the "passive aggressive" note you asked me to write like I used to into your bag and shrugged it off when I asked like-- like you don't know your own charm.
It told you to "stop messing around on Facebook and write your **** :)", which may have been the last thing I would ever tell you to do-- I forget-- just like you forgot how much you missed my notes and reminders and all of it (except for me).
So, if you can forget about every Sunday night and the way your fingers danced on my ankle and my thigh, then I can pretend I never loved you in a way I swore no one else could because, to this day, I'm upset that you seem to think that there was anyone else besides you in this endless universe that ever would do.
I will forget the way you said my name when you were tired, frustrated, and alone, and the way you asked me to get wine drunk, because the 150 reasons that I was in love with you are the same reasons that I need to let you go, too.
I can’t wait for the day when I don’t think of you, when I feel acid rain pouring on my face like fiery fingers and tears, or when curls bounce around my face like the phone cord in the first house I remember, or drink cinnamon orange tea and write forty pages of gender theory. I can’t wait for the day when I don't remember you won’t message back, and I’m left on read like a newspaper reporter without a following, or when brandy and coffee doesn’t smell like your breath or how I thought you’d taste. Because fiery tears are acid rain on my cheeks that won’t burn the scattered pieces of you away.
A friend asked me how to be a writer. I wanted to say, lock yourself in a room, scream until you have a poem and no voice. Open your veins and bleed until you know that your bones are pure words and sorrow. Act as if you slit your own throat and all you can bleed are your own regrets and all of the darkness you boxed up for inspiration. Write your mom a letter, tell her you're leaving and you won't be back for awhile Because being a writer is traveling through all seven layers of **** and denying anything is wrong. Forget loving yourself when all you have is a pen and paper fused to your wrist and Jesus is tapping at your skull saying turn back now. Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning It's just your soul clawing at the front door trying to get in. Learn how to be alone. Learn how to lose everything you have in order to feel release, learn how to only feel deceased from now on. A friend asked me how to be a writer. All I said was don't
Despite everything There’s something About Texting someone under The table At holidays, Hoping no one will Ask you Their name Or Their status Because Despite everything There’s something About loving Without labels and Friendship without Names And once it’s said Aloud It doesn’t mean as much Anymore
there’s something about the way i’ve hit my head on the awards on the wall that makes me love this place. it’s the specks of maroon in the evergreen carpet and the way we used to sit on the table too close together. i love the way that the wheels of the chairs catch on the computer cords and the coffee stains on the floor. it’s the whiteboard we built and the movie we watched and all all all of the ink smeared on our fingers and our faces that makes me wish i could never forget this and also that i entirely, completely could.
Tonight is cold coffee sitting in a paper-and-ink colored mug on the corner of the desk; it’s propping old tennis-shoes feet on your swivel chair and sitting so close i can see the holes in the collar of your shirt and nothing less.
Tonight is trying to pretend that your arm on my shoulders doesn’t matter to me; it’s telling myself that we’re just friends and that everything beyond that is so unclear; it’s swallowing the lump in my throat and inhaling your bittersweet cologne.
Tonight is tiled floors and silent hallways broken by eighties pop music and dropping things on the floor, because I worked ten hours today and “i just can’t” anymore; it’s thin mints crushed into chocolate and stardust pieces on the floor of the office that I should’ve vacuumed Friday, or Monday, or probably the week before.
And tomorrow is going to be two meetings and too many shuffling agendas and everything else that I hate; it’ll be khaki-colored pants and a glimpse of you through the window if i’m lucky, because the wet blanket that will settle in tomorrow and make itself at home is reality.
But for tonight, it’s almost ten thirty, and I’m sure that I could walk faster to my car and kick less concrete pebbles along the way, but then I would’ve missed you shouting that you’ll see me tomorrow,