How to express the weighing
Tenderness in my heart for you

How to explain
My heart
That is losing its shape
And taking form of
A condition

Invisible and critical, demanding
How to make sense of this

Longing here, in the empty shelves of my rib cage
Where you stand before me
Our feverish hands so close to touching
But they do not touch

How to let it be known that
You are wearing down, softly
The parts of me I stregnthened most

Should I laugh about it?
This comely irony, my soul burning bright for you
On winter's coldest night

Tell me, how should I behave?
What façade should I turn to?
When this means more to me than I know it should

How should I conceal, love
The layers
Of you
That can be found in me?

Remember that one time years ago on thanksgiving day when I was feeling so sad and had gotten in a shaky argument with my mom so I drove miles and miles into the night crying along to Radiohead, and all it took was sending one brief text message for me to end up at the step of your garage-bedroom door. your family had just finished eating dinner, I met your uncle for the first time, that might’ve been the last time I saw him, too. we spent the rest of the night in the dim of your bedroom, lying down on raschel blankets you’d carefully set out on the floor for us, my body like a crescent moon cradled in the orbit of your arms. darling boy, I’m falling apart again, and it’s in these times when it hits me most, when I realize the significance of your Autumn skin, of the monolithic bones behind them that held me close the way they did, that held me together as on that night. I’m sorry I didn’t know it then just how lucky I was. I’m sorry that I’m writing something like this now knowing all too well that none of this will ever reach you.

I haven’t always been the best lover, daughter, sister, relative, friend, coworker, student, individual. But my intentions, for the most part, have always been good. My heart is many things; conflicted, light, heavy, dizzy, a transcontinental road map, oozing liquid, electric, pure. Kind and pure. I can't confidently say that about many of me, but of this one thing I am sure. In my lifetime I've positioned myself to be the one who gets hurt and not be the one to cause it. But taking it for how it is, it doesn’t always work out that way. It rarely, actually, has ever or will ever work out that way, not always at least.

I’ve hurt you, and I’m sorry. I’ve broken you, parts of you, and I’m sorry. I’ve let you down before, and I’m sorry. You have hurt me, and I forgive you. My heart is broken, but I do not hold it against you. You’ve let me down, and it’s okay. This is the part of existing we didn't sign up for. Yes, I realize the whole "sign up for" analogy is ****** and weak, I can do better than that, I know. But it's just, what I'm trying to get at here is that this is the part of being I am no longer wrecking myself over trying to understand anymore. We are fleshed boomerangs of disdain and consolation, martyr and martyred, antonym and synonym. Take me for who I am and who I have the potential to be. Take you for who you are and your potential just the same, resent and mend, just the same. Let go of your expectations, take it for how it is.

Am I getting this wrong, again?
I just want you so bad
I just want you so bad

Memory 1:
Cutting oranges off their stems and eating them underneath cherry blossom trees post-rain and post-picket sign protest in Sacramento with Steff.

Memory 2:
Night time, FYF VIP area, sharing a scarf to sit on. slice of veggie pizza, Denisse telling me about her dad, how a beat-down truck with working men made her think of him as she was driving on the 210 the other day. how it moved her so much she ended up pulling over on the side of the road to cry. String of dim lights overhead, Air's Playground Love assimilating in the background of the momentum we've just shared.

Memory 3:
Fourth of July, Navajo woven blankets, lying down faced up arms lazily stretched out in the back of Tia Irene's pick-up truck. talking about how scary it is growing up and how much we fear God. you've decided you no longer want to be a news reporter. I tell you you'll be successful in whatever it is you end up doing. All the while sparks of reds, purple, green, pinks, blues fill the sky in slow, steady twirls all around us.

Memory 4:
Valentine's Day, car parked a few minutes away from where we're walking to. An empty construction site with a view that overlooks our city. you set down the box of pizza, take off your backpack, set out a blanket, a candle, two glass cups rolled up in San Bernardino Sun, a bottle of wine. Tell me to dig in, I pull up the lid, it's shaped like a heart. You didn't realize the wine had a cork, try pulling it off with your teeth. We forget the wine, play The Doors from your cellphone instead, they've finally been added to Spotify, we comment on this. Lying next to each other, my neck cradled in your arm, the warmth of your skin transcends from the wool of your shirt. A shooting star passes the auburn sky like lightning, said you missed it, had your eyes closed. I close mine shortly after, too.

Memory 5:
Everyone is huddled in the living room, a serenade of whispering and sssh she's coming. Tio Frank and Dad have the wheelchair turned around, your back facing us as you enter the door. They move you down the steep of the entrance, you look up, Las Mañanitas starts to play from the stereo, welcome home! You cradle your head in your hands and begin to cry. We reach out to hold you, crying, too.

I think one of my favorite things about dining in restaurants is the background music and how it synchronizes with the sound of silverware clicking against dishes

My grandmother from Mexico used to use this Jergen’s face cream that she would call “la crema de las tres caritas,” and every time my dad would go visit her from the states she wouldn’t ask him for anything except to bring her one, and he always would. With time, even when he would make surprise visits, he always made sure to take her a tub of her tres caritas.

I ended up meeting my grandmother when I was about nine, ten years of age, and after that I only saw her once more before she passed. I don’t recall much of our encounters, I don’t really remember what her voice sounded like or the words we exchanged. But I remember her embrace, hugging her for the first time and feeling an immense sense of warmth and love in its purest, grounded form. She had womanhood in her arms, an airy sense of strength, tenderness, and compassion even though I was just a child and couldn’t pin down the feeling just then. It was a unique hug and comfort that only a grandmother could give, and it has come to mean more to me now as a young woman that it ever has, now that I understand. The encouragement and reassurance of her hug has remained with me through the calamity, sufferings, and heartaches of my life; just as she intended.

What I do vividly remember is the complexion of her face. A caramel bronzed, subtly creased, pearly glow. Observing this for the first time as a child, I knew the reason why, and it brought me joy. After that, whenever I was at the store and came across the pink lidded Jergen’s it warmed my heart, it still does. I asked my mom if she could buy me one when we were shopping at Walmart once, and from then on I’ve continued buying and using it. It’s been about thirteen years now, and sometimes when I put some on early morning or at night before going to bed, it makes me think of her, oh her glowing face, of her radiating warmth, and in some silly way it makes me feel close to her, like that first and last embrace we shared that I don’t think I’ll ever come to forget.

It kind of blows me away, in retrospect, how simple objects, little things, how everything seamlessly has the potential to intertwine with significance and meaning. All of this means so much to me.