Do you remember the humid red that stained your cheeks?
Do you recall the sultry desire that overran your judgments?
Do you maybe reminisce on the unsynchronized gasping of needed breath?
Do you recollect on ripped clothing during insistent moments of unshakeable craving?

Because it was this unshakeable craving that controlled you, it overtook you and you forgot to resist. It was this unshakeable craving that let you remember, recall, reminisce, recollect on your sticky love.  

Do you remember the burning of skin as you transferred heat?
        Or the pressing up against the door?
        Or curled toes?  
        Or the paralyzing quivers?
Do you recollect on the sweatiness amongst the heavy sheets?
Do you perhaps reminisce on how it felt like an addiction you couldn’t overcome?
Do you recall the “no-it’s-not”, but really it was?

Because really, it was.
It was the sum of these parts, but they oddly equated to more.                  
It was this “no-it’s-not”, when really it was, that let you remember, recall, reminisce, recollect on your sticky love.

Do you remember what it was?
Do you recall wanting, needing, yearning?
Do you recollect messy hair, breathlessness, than the stillness?
Do you reminisce on this quiet stillness?

Because it was this stillness that lets you remember, recall, recollect on, reminisce on your sticky love.

I can walk through the waves and the sand all day,
Just waiting for the tide to take me away.
There's a reason why I am by the seaside,
There's a story that belongs with the bewildering tide.
It's about a boy and a girl who expressed their love,
In ways far from ordinary- it was completely above.
Her love is the ocean and his the sand,
You can tell that it's love as they walk side by side, hand in hand.
I think you knew why I was by the seaside,
When I looked to my left you were watching the tide.
I pulled you near and held your hand as the tide rolled in and covered the sand.
The story's still unraveling as we grow older,
With our toes in the sand and my head on your shoulder.
We will come and go, yet always meet,
Emotions as strong as the waves hitting our feet.
Our love may get pushed aside, bruised and sore,
But remember, the tide always returns to the shore.

I want a kiss that is soaked by the rain,
On a street with no name.
I want a kiss in the ocean,
With all the sunbathers watching.
Give me a kiss in the backseat of your car,
Under the light of a thousand country stars.
Park your lips onto mine,
Whether it is or it's not the right time.
Because you are handsome and I am ******,
Because like it or not, I want me under.
So give me my highly desired kiss,
So things go further than a simple poem like this.

I must get lost in inspiration… because he was inspiring and I was taken. I felt the need to keep him in view and let the colour of the world bleed beside me like the blur of an oncoming car, recognized then forgotten. I could sit there consumed in patience, and when he spoke I would listen. Though, if he never did speak again, I would have been content listening to the way his shifted weight reset the chair beneath him.

I still think back to the night we met and I cannot quite grasp why he was there, or why he approached me. Maybe it was the laws of emotional physics that force those who are lonely to embrace another’s loneliness. So, from across the room he came, confident in the fact that I had no one to talk to. It took me less than a second to figure out that he was a fresh face, so I allowed him to ask me question after question. At each pause an appropriate nod, yes, or smile was inserted. We were having a conversation.

They say misery does love company, so maybe it was merely the atmosphere of dingy black lights and unfamiliarity that brought us together. A connection rooting from a mutual desire to be anywhere but there.  

I shocked myself when I asked him to come home with me. He shocked me more when he said he would. We walked together in the snow, along the sidewalk leading to my basement apartment. He didn’t wear a coat, and I thought he could have been freezing. But the expression on his face seemed to imply he didn’t mind. I remember I was wearing a red rain coat, with the hood over my head and brown curls falling down either side of my face. My hair was brown and long in February. I thought I looked like Little Red Riding Hood. I felt at home in the snow on College Avenue.

We lay in my bed, with the lamp on nightstand switched on. I remember how cold my room was during the winter, but can’t recall feeling cold that evening. We talked about ourselves, each sharing pieces of the past and future. He talked about what he cared about, he talked about his grandfather. I thought that was lovely, a boy sharing something personal. He looked like he might cry, and I thought that was pure.

He had a tattoo of a finch on the inside of his right arm. He wore glasses, ones that looked like they belonged on the face of an aged man, but they fit perfectly on his. He told me about his passion for writing and photography. At the time he was working on portraits. I told him I was into landscape, and he was interested in seeing some of my work. I was interested in him, though I only know this now.

I can quite put my finger on what may have initiated our first kiss. It didn’t last long though; I knew I didn’t want to be the girl making out with a stranger in my bed. Yet, I had invited him- a contradiction I never grasped. He fell asleep in his jeans, and I on his chest.

We spent the next few weeks with one another. Our nights were filled with dinners, shows, red wine and scrabble. Our walk through the icy forest was our last encounter.

I often find myself looking back on that afternoon and wondering what I could have possibly said or done to have caused him to feel he had had enough. At this point, I was beginning to understand that this was a person I would have liked to spend my nights with for much longer than a few weeks. I was under the impression he felt that way for me. So when he texted me the next day explaining why we would no longer be seeing one another, I couldn’t help but cry. I cried for a long time. I cried harder because I didn’t understand his explanations. There were many, and each one wasn’t a logical reason for not wanting to be with someone. As difficult as it was, I avoided asking why and said that I understood (no I did not) and acted much more mature than I felt necessary. He appreciated that, and hated him for it. He said we could still be friends we would get a coffee sometime soon. I knew that we couldn’t and we wouldn’t.

I thought back to the night we had first met, and how two options presented me. I debated over going downtown to join my friend at her boyfriend’s birthday, but I had chosen the party on College Avenue. I cried about not choosing downtown. I wished I had not met him, wished with everything I had that he had not made a place in my life. That was when I realized I was heartbroken.

I never realized it until then. Through all those weeks I was under the impression that he was the one consumed with me, and yet here I was – defeated.

My hair is short and blonde now, it is July. It took me five months to write this, five months to heal. I look back on this relationship and one line continues to resurface. A few months ago, I was looking back and trying to pinpoint the signs of a failing relationship that I missed. I still can’t. But I do realize now, that I was always scared, timid and silent. I want to stress silent. And I can present our relationship with one line; I think it may actually even do somewhat of a good job explaining its failure too.

*He filled the spaces with prompts that I do not take for I feared he would recognize all that I lack.

I ran into you again in the old café.
You know the one, with its yellow and blue vintage mugs,
The one with the mismatched chairs and Old Persian rugs.
With the red espresso machine and the barista who knows us both by name.

When I say I ran into you, I don’t really mean we made small talk,
Or even acknowledged one another with a head tilt or nod.
It was more so I saw you from across the shop, and you saw through me.

I watched you order your coffee as I mimicked the bartender’s “Markus”.
I put my head in my book, the one about god-knows-who doing god-knows-what.
You took your usual seat, the one a table down from mine,
The one beside the window that looks down the main strip.

You drink your coffee with cold milk and sugar, with a slow rush and concentration.
I wonder where you go to each afternoon, who you meet with
And if she knows you bite your nails.

As you drink and think, you scrawl.
I follow your hand motions in-between a word or two on the page in-front of me.
Each time I try and imagine what it says, but each time you finish your cup you crumple the page and stuff it in your denims.
I wonder who washes your pants, who find those words,
Who treasures them the way I would.
I wonder if she knows you mess with the front of your hair when your hands don’t know what to do.

You pick up your empty cup, place it on the counter, you open the door and nod to the barista.
She nods and tells you to “not be a stranger”.
I look to where you sat, and feel lonely without your scribbling.
But where you sit is not empty, with a sugar *** and stir sticks.
Your words you left, for her not to find and for me to steal.

I walk to the table and turn over your page. It writes,
“A letter to the girl I see in our café, the one that knows us both by name.
I see you but you see right through me.
I wonder who you are looking for out on the street, I wonder if you are waiting for someone to walk by,
And if he knows you touch your hair when you’re nervous and drink vanilla lattes with one sugar.
I wonder if he is in your books you read about only-you-know-who and only-you-know-what.
I sit in the window where you look, waiting for you to see me,
I write and write to tell you something or anything,
But I know he is out there somewhere and not here in.
I scribble something down in hopes I can somehow get you to notice me,
But all I can write about is how beautiful you look in our quiet, old café, drinking the froth from a blue mug.”

It’s that addictive conversation you reiterate. It’s the knife cut staining the cutting board. It’s the black bruise that keeps spreading. It’s the crack in the sidewalk followed by the fall you forgot to brace. It’s the deadline missed. It’s the “this-not-that”. It’s the hour passed that you couldn’t afford to lose. It’s the darkness under the bed. It’s the crack in the ceiling. The creak in the step. The leaky faucet. The sour milk. It’s the abandoned dog’s cry. It’s the forgotten wallet on the subway train. It’s the stand up on a blind date. It’s the buying a carton of broken eggs. It’s the “I’m-sorry-I-forgot”. It’s the gum on the bottom of stilettos. It’s the cigarette smoke invading your lungs. It’s the bald man lurking around the corner.  It’s the two yellow eyes amongst the sickening darkness. It’s the disease in your mothers breast. It’s the crisp brown leaves on your house plant. It’s the neglected number on a misplaced napkin. It’s the loose *****. The pull in your sweater. The miscommunication. The jammed index finger. It’s the first time and wishing it was your last. It’s the promised call that never came. It’s the clenched fist as you suffer the hit. It’s the threatening epidemic. It’s the “it-will-take-time” which you never took. It’s the adhesive fly paper you can’t shake off.
And it’s all of this,
Till you grasp it’s none of this.
It’s the muggy sickness found in the depths of your stomach.
It’s scorching guilt
And it’s eating you, swallowing you whole
It’s suffocating
It’s enduring
It's guilt everlasting

I wish upon a star to be
The girl you think you see in me

I wish upon the candles of cake
To be the girl I try to fake

I wish upon each fourth clover
To become the spitting image of her

I wish upon each coin I throw
To be the girl you desire to know

I wish upon each rainbow I see
That I was the girl you'd ask marry me

I wish upon every white horse
Our paths will blend to a single course

I wish upon each full moon
To become the girl you notice soon

But a wish is merely a wish, you see
A boy like you is never to be
With a girl like myself, a girl like me.

I thought maybe, just maybe
If I cut deep enough I could reach my insides
Because that's where the hurt was,
Deep inside, beneath a layer of skin and flesh.

If I just broke through it,
Maybe it would leak out of me,
An overflow and ooze of pain and hate.

I knew my blood would be black, it had to be,
Since that's what I was filled with- darkness.
The amount wasn't surprising,
It was beautiful.
Each stream released a different pain bottled inside of me,
Like a delicate river in the black of night.

What did surprise me though, was its sticky substance.
But without much thought, the obvious reason came to me-
It was my sickness.
Everyone knows sickness is sticky.
And since my body was all sickness,
It too would run in my blood.

So it was the sticky blackness that kept me going.
It became my reward,
It was empirical evidence that I was getting better.
I had to be, I was losing so much sticky darkness.
There was no plausible way the outcome was reversed.

It wasn't till later that I realized,
If my darkness and sickness was so consuming,
And it was my blood-
Then it was keeping me alive.

The more I drew, the less I lived.
I was not getting better,
I was getting closer to death.

How could I be getting better,
If what I desired most was
a cut of flesh,
a pool of black,
a sticky mess,
a one-way ticket.

I was never a child who got too startled
It was not the imaginary monsters or darkest corners that kept me up
It was always the words
Words  that paralyzed me, pinned back my ears

I was never a child who got too sick
I did not catch the common flu commonly  
Nor did I shake with sweat on a bone-chilling night
It was always the words
Words that scraped my stomach raw, ate me inside out

I was never a child who got too smart
I did not talk with naively perceived accuracy
It was not the punishment I received from being a smart-aleck that refrained me
It was always the words
Words that controlled my inner speech, meticulously measuring what squeaked out

I was never a child who got too close
I did not trust, for I did not know, for I did not try
I was barricaded by the words
It was always the words that paralyzed me, scraped me raw, controlled me
I was forced to listen, but never to ask, never to protest, never to question
I was restrained by the words, obstructed by them
I let them hurt, I let them deplete me, I let them be me

And they have been me, and they are me
I have consumed them, time and time again
I let them take over, till there was no more me and only the words
It was always the words
Now it is just *the words

You went into those waters
The ones they always warned you about, scolded you for speaking - thinking about
Yet you submerged yourself so completely, it ****** you in whole
You peacefully sank without a cry for help, without a murmur of protest
The weight of the water held you, the surface stilled

You went into those waters
You let it eat you, fill you up, take you hostage
But you were not detained
You made it home, you breathed in the blackness – lived for the blackness
It was the uncertainty within the musk which you could not resist

You went into those waters, but you did emerge
You resurfaced with its heavy stench clinging to you
Everything you built turned to ash upon your touch
Your visit in the water was what rotted your soul - tainted your skin
It stained your body till you were unrecognizable
You emerged a stranger to yourself

You went into those waters
But you never did return - for it was not you who resurfaced
Your clean body lies hidden along the waters floor

You went into those waters
You were warned, but could not resist
You enjoyed what could provide
And in return it kept you

It’s merely a contradiction of the previously mentioned
It’s the surfacing of truth
It’s the beginning of disappointment
The deterioration of hopefulness
The bridge between expectancy and what really came
It's the prepare yourself
It's the brace yourself
It's the dreaded but...

This will not define me
It will not beat me, break me, tear me down
I am stronger, more powerful
My sickness will not control me
It will not trap me in fears and worries
I am braver, more powerful
It does not know me
For I control myself, feel what I choose, be what I like
I am me, more powerful
Depression will not hold me
I am not it's prisoner, I am not it's puppet, or victim
I am self-governing, more powerful

He was the best friend
The nice guy
The one who deserved the best
I was portrayed innocence
The young girl
The one who tried my best

For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors
You recieved a chinese latern
And I a snow globe

Your lantern did not light
Looked full but only held a space of nothingness
My snow globe did not disturb settled fake snow
There was no magic in my winter wonderland

We laughed because we both knew
Our thoughtless gifts held much more meaning then intended

For the holidays, we exchanged metaphors for the love we shared
                                       (Or lack there of)

Once it fell apart there was no going back
The pain ended for him, began for me
I broke it, with my restless hands and sleepless mind
It took some time to sink, become reality
But once it did, I was on the floor
The same place I had forced him to make home for the past four years
I felt the groove where he had lay while he felt her
He escaped my prison, where I now hold only me
He has now had the taste of someone else
Experienced a love much sweeter and true than my bitter impurity
There will be no return to my dark chambers
For a simple taste of something better will keep a man away forever

You woke me up -
It is long before morning
And I am bleary eyed
All because you woke me up.

You wake me up -
I promptly regain life
And I am falling apart at the seams
But you continue to wake me up.

You've been waking me up -
The reason is beyond me
And this exhaustion leaves me clumsy
I go to bed knowing you will be waking me up.

You have woken me up -
Hazy and calm
Only to keep me sleeping in your arms
I'd roll over and continue because you had woken me up.

I have woken up -
In a different bed for the past year
In a house we do not share
I have woken up in his arms
(with you waking me up).

You asked me where I wanted to fall in love

And all I could think was, "In your arms"

I am trying to remember
Trying to remember you
I am trying to hold onto the last thread
The last thread that's connected to you
But I lost sight of you so long ago
I lost sight of myself
I forgot you
And now all I can remember is you

I can only write when he breaks my heart,
And I never walk away,
Because being a writer is about finding your inspiration,
And holding on to it.

What happened to my writing?
What happened to my words?
Could I call them back?
Would I be heard?

I thought this was my outlet,
I thought this was how I was freed,
Could I call it back?
Should I plead?

Should I pray for inspiration?
Or give up for the best?
Maybe my time is up,
Perhaps it’s time for a rest.

Yes, perhaps it’s time for a rest.