"Hi, Therese."
I say it when I go to water my plants in the sunny window
And there stuck in the cords of my dreamcatcher
I notice the little husks of the white flowers you picked for me
Back when the nights weren't even that chilly.
I feel it all again,
And now that I have forgiven your utter silence I have no defense
Against my need to connect.
And the words spill out-
Aloud!-
"Hi, Therese."
And it's really not much at all,
Except that they continue in my head all day long.
When I pass by a spot where I saw you
Or when something momentarily triggers a memory
In my head,
"Hi, Therese."
Soft and wistful and more tender than I would like to admit.
Sometimes at night before I go to sleep,
I rest my fingers on the crumbling pedals of those flowers
Just softly,
So that none of their dust trickles down the wall,
And I say to you the things I imagine people say to God before they sleep.
I have never been one for God.
He has never been one for me, either,
And so I have come to see divinity in people, instead.
It isn't a choice, really,
It's just that when I am in dire circumstances, sad, or lonely,
I do not speak to the sky,
I speak to the memory of somebody I would blot it out for.
Sometimes I am ashamed.
But the effect you've had
Reverberates through my life in waves.
I can't explain just why,
Just like I can't explain why I've never thought there was a heaven.
(i found it in your arms. i found hell there, as well. i think they are
two sides
of the same coin.)
I only know that I cannot hold loving you.
It spills out of me at random little times,
And pulls at my carefully mended seams,
And tugs on my carefully chained heart.
So sometimes when I walk into my room and it's sunny and quiet
And I stand by the window watching green leaves eat up the light,
I say very quietly,
"Hi, Therese."
And I feel a little bit less upended.
And really
What choice have I but to speak to you like you're God
When you are as absent
And as essential?
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
"Hi, Therese."
I say it when I go to water my plants in the sunny window
And there stuck in the cords of my dreamcatcher
I notice the little husks of the white flowers you picked for me
Back when the nights weren't even that chilly.
I feel it all again,
And now that I have forgiven your utter silence I have no defense
Against my need to connect.
And the words spill out-
Aloud!-
"Hi, Therese."
And it's really not much at all,
Except that they continue in my head all day long.
When I pass by a spot where I saw you
Or when something momentarily triggers a memory
In my head,
"Hi, Therese."
Soft and wistful and more tender than I would like to admit.
Sometimes at night before I go to sleep,
I rest my fingers on the crumbling pedals of those flowers
Just softly,
So that none of their dust trickles down the wall,
And I say to you the things I imagine people say to God before they sleep.
I have never been one for God.
He has never been one for me, either,
And so I have come to see divinity in people, instead.
It isn't a choice, really,
It's just that when I am in dire circumstances, sad, or lonely,
I do not speak to the sky,
I speak to the memory of somebody I would blot it out for.
Sometimes I am ashamed.
But the effect you've had
Reverberates through my life in waves.
I can't explain just why,
Just like I can't explain why I've never thought there was a heaven.
(i found it in your arms. i found hell there, as well. i think they are
two sides
of the same coin.)
I only know that I cannot hold loving you.
It spills out of me at random little times,
And pulls at my carefully mended seams,
And tugs on my carefully chained heart.
So sometimes when I walk into my room and it's sunny and quiet
And I stand by the window watching green leaves eat up the light,
I say very quietly,
"Hi, Therese."
And I feel a little bit less upended.
And really
What choice have I but to speak to you like you're God
When you are as absent
And as essential?
