And when I molt
you make a headdress of the selves that
have fallen from me with time.
Like you, they are colourful and cautious.

And as you carefully creep skyward,
I throw myself down in the cool grasses
of your lengthening shadow.
I was tired. It made sense to rest.

And so we played with feathers and inches
as children do.
Running in circles and circles until we fell asleep holding hands.

What were we,
but our love?

If I use the right words
anything I say in these first three lines
will urge you to



Point made.

If I'm the cowgirl,
courage is the bronco
and you're the stranger in the mask.

Call it geographical bias,
but I know we're both tired of tumbleweeds,
both allergic to dust.

So carry out,
carry on.
Spit and be brave, child.

This town ain't big enough
for our desert rose hearts to grow.

So give me land.

Lots of land.

It's pouring rain and my backpack is full of strawberry kefir.
I think when we decided to take a break,
you took half my brain with you.

Kefir is a delightful crossbreed of Yop and Perrier. Creamy sublingual fireworks. A single tablespoon is sufficient to send a conga line of 5 billion probiotic bacteria boogying through your innards. But like most things I enjoy, I cannot successfully covet in small, measured portions. Which is why I went for the litre in the first place.

I imagine your face as I rinse my strawberry saturated belongings and imagine the microscopic bacterium hoopla happening between my fingers (you would laugh at my conga line comparison, because you are one of the world's only people who knows how much I truly despise conga lines).

Oh God, the water is just diluting the yogurt. It has become the great Sea of Kefir.

You would have the solution to this. When it comes to logic, you manage to beat me every time without ever making me feel intellectually inferior.

But I need to figure these things out for myself.

Luckily my other groceries were sealed in plastic:
-chia seeds
-goji berries
-cacao nibs
-wheatgrass

These were spared.

As you can see, since we have decided to embark on our own paths for a while, I have tried to be "HEALTHY!". The bathroom is a small library of moth-bitten self-help books (Thanks, Mom) and my bedtime is close enough to twilight to high-five the sun on its way down.
I've started to work out again with a little more addiction than conviction or even common sense.
And because you aren't here to regulate me, I've busted my knees (aaaa-gaaaain.)

And all notwithstanding, as I wandered down 13th avenue with my organic Hippie super-loot, feeling very smug and self-possessed in my birkenstocks, I passed by my favourite breakfast joint, and my kale-fertilized stomach was very persuasive: No, I insist.

Proceeded to savour three enormous pancakes that I could have stitched together to form a roomy buckwheat overcoat. Drowned them with a 3pm coffee. I thought nothing of it, but after all we've been through when it comes to food, you would have been so proud of me, babe. When I admit that I've got a broken heart (-darling, I know I broke my own) people are far too kind to me. 110 minutes and three sacks of flour later I float in a sweet gluten haze from my free (and freeing) lunch back to my apartment.

Which is when I discover the Sea of Kefir.

I think I'm trying too hard.

I think, really, the Art of Becoming One Whole Person isn't so much about us becoming the Perfect People we've always wanted to be. That's not why we strapped a hundred helium balloons to our otherwise incredible relationship and tearfully waved as it disappeared over the horizon. I think it's really about just learning how to regulate ourselves.

Here's one Truth: We will never, ever be perfect. And we will never find our perfection in each other. We have to let that go. We have to stop fighting against the invisible standards we create in each other.

But we can get over ourselves enough to be Pretty Great.
Just make peace with the Pretty Great folks we are. Have the 3 pancake- sore knee- kefir backpack afternoons, and still feel Pretty Great.

And when we do, I think our relationship will feel Pretty Great, too.

Because I'd rather be able to remind myself that I'm Pretty Great,
than rely on you to convince me I'm Perfect.

Yikes, there it is.

So that's my homework. It's full of errors, and there are countless agitated holes worn through by pink erasers, self-doubt, and heartache.

But I know, darling- that by the end of this, you'll give me a sticker-

(and by then I wont need it)

I'll put it right next to the one I've given myself.

They say it gets better
but they never tell you when.

Isn't a breakup, after all, the surgical excision
of another whole person from your own?
Doc, gimme something to work with here
no post-op measures of comfort, no chemicals,
how long will these symptoms last?

Which day shall be the worst?
What can I eat?
How do I get to sleep?
Why is there so much vertigo?

I've lost my captain. I've lost my compass.

But forget North-

*what way is even up?

Call me the Queen of Hypothesis
I thought it was a good idea

leaving this.

I want to take a razor to the hair I grew
(long enough to enchant you)
but I won't.
I want to spend all I've got
on nothing at all.
A painted, empty fool who is poverty stricken in riches-
filet mignon, a flight to Spain, fancy finery-
but I won't.

Instead I'll cry in the kitchen.
Cry in the bedroom.
Cry at flowers.
Cry at nothing.

But I won't cut off my hair.

I want to give up.
I want to run away.
Leave town, leave society, leave myself.
But I won't.

Instead I'll hurt.
Hurt in the day.
Hurt in the night.

But I won't give up.

This mouth, it does me wrong.
This mouth says goodbye,
when it only wants to be
on your fingertips
on your neck
on your back
anywhere

just not saying goodbye.

These eyes, they do me wrong.
These eyes have seen the truth of things,
when they only want to
watch you laugh
watch you dress in the morning
watch your body moving on mine-
Just watch you.
And blind themselves against the path we have chosen.

I want to take it back.

But...

I won't.

Instead I'll love you.
And love you.
And love you,
love you,

                           I love you

until I can love me
just as much.

So call us the King and Queen of Hypothesis, darling.
Look at our glass crowns,
how clearly you can see my heart inside,

saving for something more precious

than all the kingdom's gold.