Eulalie

Eulalie Jun 2014

A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables,
Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer—
Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre—
Louise Labé and Louis Aragon,
Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire…
I’ve been breathing in pieces of France,
Eating baguettes,
Dreaming of their kisses,
Committing the curl of their words to memory,
To maybe find out just why they say the French love better.
Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets,
I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own:
Je suis heureux.

Eulalie Jun 2014

More Sickly Than Sweet.

The fact that I got under your skin may in correlation mean that you still may be under mine.

A stalemate that will perhaps dissipate in time.

I'm already over it.

Eulalie Mar 2014

The Feels (and lack thereof)

I feel as though I'd felt so many feels on these latent, impassioned, sentimental feelings that I reached a breaking point of feeling bad feelings and now after all of that feeling, I've lost the ability to feel about it anymore, in any kind of regard. I'm numbed to the mere thought of you.

And that's a new feeling.

Every little thing is gonna be all right

Eulalie Mar 2014

A Motif of Fives.

From over five thousand to less than five: I feel like it’s safe to say that the physical distance has officially been closed, though I’m laughing at the irony that is my life, for so much has changed since I first dreamt of this moment, and I’m wondering if any other kind of closeness would ever possibly ensue (though very much ambiguous, I’m thinking no).

So much is different, and I’m only musing, entertained by how circumstance has been presented, how much of myself has been altered, how estranged I feel that I’ve taken myself so far for the sake of pursuing an idea.

I’m giddy at not knowing, enthralled by delicious obscurity, fused with throes of adrenaline at mere contemplation of potential reconciliation, though unperturbed wholeheartedly by the threat of rejection, because my heart is no longer in your hands.

It belongs to myself again; I scooped it up from off the floor after you let it go, and I’m empowered by the independence instilled within my own soul. I will not break my own heart.

But we are no longer five thousand miles apart—less than five, even, and five months ago that self that loved you so profoundly and desperately deserves some kind of closure, and this new, strong self I’ve constructed has enough conviction and determination to coddle the old one if things go awry. But this travel, since circumstance has changed so greatly lately, is no longer about you.

You are not my sun, nor my moon—merely a constellation that, were I to get distracted, I can lose sight of easily, can confuse your luminescent patterns with the chaotic translation of stars around you.

If you send me away, shove a ******* at my face, I’ll melt the cold chip with self-love and graciously enthrall myself with the enchantment of travel. Whatever the outcome, I can’t lose.

This isn't as clever as I could have made it, but I'm stuck on prose.

Eulalie Feb 2014

Biggest Mistake I've Ever Made

What you were will never happen again.

I really want to ******* *****.

Eulalie Feb 2014

Prose of an Insomniac

Kristin says that you’re a ****.

At two in the morning I took a drive by myself to The Middle Of Nowhere, Surprise, Arizona, and I’m just sitting in the dark, gazing into the flat black sky. The moon is dulled, hazy, and blurred by the casted smear of clouds, like my current opinion of you. I don’t know what it is that I should feel anymore. I haven’t cried in an extensive stretch of my life, which in real time is actually only a couple of days, but last week feels like a year ago to me.

It’s so quiet in my heart.

There’s no traces of hurt that I can muster enough delving to detect within myself, but I know that if I went back home and fell asleep in my room, I would wake up drenched in sweat under the covers, simultaneously shivering and overheated and silently overwhelmed, daunted by the absence of your love.

But right now, sitting in my car, curing like a taciturn husk of a person in the reticence of the night, I can almost mistake this detachment for serenity. The night wraps me in a blanket infinitely more comfortable than the ones on my bed, and nothing is out here to tie you back to my memory.

I don’t know what it is that I think of you, anymore.

Kristin says that you’re a ****, and maybe that’s true. But there was someone else there, too—there was someone of particular interest that I can almost remember, someone that had me feeling deeply every single “I love you”. But it’s been a year in my time, and I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t feel like you had ever been mine, and right now, sitting in my dark car, everything is completely, entirely, serenely fine.

I can’t see the moon anymore.

Eulalie Feb 2014

I Really ******* Miss You

I keep trying to convince myself that I’ve mustered enough strength to stand up, take a breath, and move the **** on with my life,
content and resolute in knowing that you can’t be a part of it any longer;
I keep trying to convince myself that it was all a bad
(and exquisitely decadent)
dream, that none of it actually happened, that you were precisely those last terrible words, and nothing else;
I keep trying to convince myself that I never loved you,
that I do not still love you…
And yet all the while I can’t muster enough strength to stand up at all;
I balance and wobble on shaky stilts for a brief bit of time, sure, distract myself with “living my life” and “letting you go” and
finding peace amongst the heartbreak, but I am too clumsy to keep abreast for long—
the end of my shoes clip and snag onto memories of sweet nothings, and
I fall all over again as if it were for the first time;
I fall and hit the ground with a smitten, dazed smack of my head to the pavement,
and at first I’m numbed with pleasantries, with the tender memories and harmonies that used to put me to sleep with a smile so stupid it wouldn’t wipe away,
but then the stars clear
and I’m trying to bite back the smarting with fallacies over my decidedly pragmatic indifference, and in my not-yet-pained stupor,
I can almost breathe a mechanical sigh—
can almost get swallowed up by sheer lack of sensation—
and extract a salvation out of my own emotional etherization and find satisfaction amongst the numbness…
I can almost move on if I don’t feel at all…
But I don’t have any reserves of Novocain or morphine, and after I’ve fallen,
the pain always returns.
I keep trying to convince myself that what you told me was true,
that you weren’t ever real,
that you weren’t ever real,
but that contemplation is destroyed the minute it enters the recesses of my darkened cognizance, and I can never revere over a single ******* moment of my day without
something of you
making its unsolicited entrance;
you were always real.
I don’t know;
I just want something positive to come of us, still;
I still hope all the while we are silent; I still yearn all the while we stay distant—
“independent”;
you still are the victim of my fantasies all the while within my head I lament,
praying that I’ll find contentment,
and that for a small while you are only just taking rent
elsewhere, and will soon miss me enough to say that leaving me is never
what you meant of it…
Call me excessively self-indulgent and masochistic for all the
emotional ballistics and disconsolate pyrotechnics
but I’m convinced that the last five months can be validated with a
simple romantic fix of all of this:
for you and I were too explosive not to make sense;
there’s too much that’s been felt,
too much harboring under my doting starry-eyed belt,
too much over which you’ve made me melt.
All I’m asking for is your help.
I surely didn’t imagine you,
I didn’t imagine that warmth that so affectionately looms,
didn’t imagine the luminescence of the moon,
didn’t imagine the connection between us two…
I suppose what it is that I’ve been trying to say, what all along I’ve attempted to convey,
is that I miss you:
Please come back to me, Mr. Blue…
I really ******* miss you.

This is more of a prose, but it wreaks of intensity and desperation and pathetic honesty. Eh.