Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.

You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.

She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.

Never autobiographical
never the truth.

She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”

So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.

She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.

People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.

She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.

She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.

Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.

She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.

She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.

And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.

Remember that chick?

...of course you don't.

I stare at myself in the mirror
decomposing.
The taste of decay still lingers in my mouth
like a hangover
I reach in
and yank out another rotted tooth.
I toss it in the cup with all of her other little trophies.
I peel what’s left of a layer of skin
from my shoulder.
Remnants of what my bed took last night
as I tossed and turned and screamed for her
to come back to life
and make mine whole again.
I ache
I dare not crack my knuckles
for I may break loose another finger.
My friend says to get out
but I’m unready to set foot in the sun
not like this.
Not when I should be dead.
I feel like the milk in my fridge
passed my expiration date
but still here
because someone’s too busy
or lazy
to throw me away.

You say
“If both she and I were dangling by our feet
over an active volcano
and you only had enough time to save one of us
which would it be?”

“Well…honestly?”
I ask
You nod.

“Neither of you.”
I answer bluntly.
“I’d freeze up.
I’d start thinking past the choice,
because the choice is too hard to make
I’d recite what I’d say at your funerals over and over
and I’d  just deal with the responsibility of my inaction.”

You leave a red hand print across my face
and do not speak to me for the rest of the day.
I learn that you don’t want me to be honest,
you want me to choose you.
I’ll make you breakfast and apologize
in the morning.

For now, I’ll sit here in self-pity
maybe finish the book I was reading
before you interrupted me
to ask that stupid question.

The first time we met
was on the playground
at Lakeshore Park.
You were six
and I was seven.
You shared your ice-cream cone with me -
Vanilla-Chocolate Swirl.

We met again a decade later
in high school,
neither of us remembered the incident at the park
until our parents showed us pictures
of us covered in the stuff
holding hands.

We stayed best friends for a three years
because I was too chicken-**** to ask you out
but somewhere along the way
our unbreakable bond came undone
you drifted off to some Ivy League school
and I stayed here
convinced I could find another way out.

After that, I pretty much forgot all about you.

That is until today,
I was at the park with my niece,
and I thought about you
I sent you a message on Facebook -
asking if you were back in town.

Then, in anticipation of our reunion,
I read what people were posting on your wall:

“Rest in Peace. You will be missed.”

…****.

I glance out of my driver’s side window
and see a boy
trudging miserably down the sidewalk
his essence radiating awkwardness
this long haired kid, maybe twelve years old
or just turned thirteen
wore hand me down boots that are too big for his feet,
ripped jeans, and a bookbag slung across his shoulder
in the dying days of July
whispering under his breath
maybe reciting poetry
or telling himself a story

And I honestly think
if time is fluid, like the oceans
like the monks say
then maybe I’m glancing over as a wave breaks
and I’m looking at myself
I couldn’t tell you how many times
I made that journey on foot
my heels throbbing, my legs begging to be broken
my hitchhiker’s thumb, had given up all hope at that point

I think about giving myself a ride
to wherever I may be going
but then I remember all the lessons I’ve learned
from time-travel movies
the one universal rule being not to meddle with the past
something about a butterfly’s wings flapping in Beijing
and a tsunami in New Orleans
or whatever
so, instead I honk my horn
and the traffic light turns green

I watch the boy, who might have been a younger me
in some distant past,
look on with curious anger as the cars pass
for a moment
then return to the story already in progress

he grows tinier and tinier
in my rear view mirror
until he is yesterday again

“One thousand words.” He said “that’s the going rate.”
I looked down at it in my hand.
Taken back to the day it was first shown to me.
“What if it’s burned?” I asked.
“Burned?” He asked. “How burned?”
“Not very, just around the edges.” I explained.
“Like, it was saved from a fire. Would it be worth more, then?”
“Well, no.” He answered, matter-of-factly.
“What it it’s old.”
“Old?” he asked. Leaning forward, now engaged. “How old?”
“What if what used to be white is now turning yellow.
and what used to seem new now looks antique
and she looks so young that you think it can’t be her.”
“Well…” He paused, thinking it over – or pretending to.
“No.” He finally decided, leaning back into his position of power.
“One thousand words. That’s the going rate.”
“What if…” I searched it for any other idiosyncrasy “It’s autographed.”
“Like – half in cursive and half printed – and the ‘I’ is accented by a tiny heart.”
“That’s tempting, but rules are rules, and rates are rates.”
He smiled, enjoying my pain too much.
“It’s worth a thousand words. No more, no less.”
“What kind of words, I mean do I get to choose them?” I said
“Mostly fluffy words, not very heavy handed words. Not five dollar words.
Just our two cents worth.” He said through his grinning teeth.
The thought of her being reduced to one-thousand two-cent words made me ill.
So I left and took the picture with me.
I wandered and pondered and got lost
finding myself
at that pier she used to talk about, where she first met my father.
The sight there had to be worth twenty thousand words, in French.
I don’t speak French.
So I did not understand why it was beautiful
only that it was.
So it was there and then that I decided I would set her
priceless and free.

I find my serenity
On the beach
Swinging alone
Nearly hypnotized
By the rhythmic squeaking
Of the metal chains
That keep my floating in the sky
Of my mind’s eye
I try and listen past it
For the sounds of the lake
Although I cannot hear them
Over the machines
Tearing down a nearby building
That used to be my school
I find the racket soothing
Interesting
The way the sounds clash
With the chain’s music

I open my eyes
It’s not a sunny day
Dark clouds are rolling in
Over the horizon
It’s going to rain
I don’t mind too much
As long as it’s a warm rain
I’d like that
If it’s not
I won’t complain
This moment
Won’t be any less perfect