Jun 2013
I wrote this a few months ago on a flight across the country. Not my best, but it healed me a bit
Thinking about you doesn't get any easier and even at 30,000 feet in the air the feeling you left with me somehow manages to suffocate me, through twenty different layers of clouds and pressurized cabins. The lady sitting next to me has a sad look in her eyes. Maybe she is suffering through some kind of heartbreak herself, just like me. She orders her coffee black. I want to reach out to her and hold her hand, but it's probably too cold, and she might **** away from my touch, the same way you did that day when you left. She smells like cheap perfume and the lies of lovers she has tried too hard to forget.
I wonder about jumping right out this plane right now. I wonder if I'd land with a *splat and if a nice young man would arrive with a broom and pan, sweep me up, and discard me into the nearest trash can, like they do in the carnivals. Would I regret it the moment my feet left the edge of the plane? Would I get the same feeling in my stomach on the way down as I did when we were together? I think I'd only jump if I were holding your hand.
I wrote “I miss you” in a too big sharpie across the front of my notebook on Tuesday. Colored it in blue because there’s not enough green to feel much else when you're not around. Two hours to go and my entire life is falling down around me. (Leave me be leave me be leave me be.) I want to be the space that water fills between your toes and hidden among the things that keeps your rusty heart beating. But I can't be the oil that makes your wheels keep spinning. At best I'm the hot hot steam that keeps your hands from burning and bleeding. You don't want me and you never fell in love with me. You fell in love with words I learned to recite and looks I knew when to give and this carcinogenic smile.
Apologies don't sound as true as they should and I never really say what I mean. I'm just as ****** up as you. And these are words carved into walls of abandoned asylums and painted on canvases with blood in lieu of paint and this is the only way I know how to say that I know what you're going through and what you've been through and how sorry I am that I can't be everything you expected of me.
Thinking about you doesn't get any easier and even at 30,000 feet in the air the feeling you left with me somehow manages to suffocate me, through twenty different layers of clouds and pressurized cabins. The lady sitting next to me has a sad look in her eyes. Maybe she is suffering through some kind of heartbreak herself, just like me. She orders her coffee black. I want to reach out to her and hold her hand, but it's probably too cold, and she might **** away from my touch, the same way you did that day when you left. She smells like cheap perfume and the lies of lovers she has tried too hard to forget.
I wonder about jumping right out this plane right now. I wonder if I'd land with a *splat and if a nice young man would arrive with a broom and pan, sweep me up, and discard me into the nearest trash can, like they do in the carnivals. Would I regret it the moment my feet left the edge of the plane? Would I get the same feeling in my stomach on the way down as I did when we were together? I think I'd only jump if I were holding your hand.
I wrote “I miss you” in a too big sharpie across the front of my notebook on Tuesday. Colored it in blue because there’s not enough green to feel much else when you're not around. Two hours to go and my entire life is falling down around me. (Leave me be leave me be leave me be.) I want to be the space that water fills between your toes and hidden among the things that keeps your rusty heart beating. But I can't be the oil that makes your wheels keep spinning. At best I'm the hot hot steam that keeps your hands from burning and bleeding. You don't want me and you never fell in love with me. You fell in love with words I learned to recite and looks I knew when to give and this carcinogenic smile.
Apologies don't sound as true as they should and I never really say what I mean. I'm just as ****** up as you. And these are words carved into walls of abandoned asylums and painted on canvases with blood in lieu of paint and this is the only way I know how to say that I know what you're going through and what you've been through and how sorry I am that I can't be everything you expected of me.
