I want to smoke a cigarette.

I want--
to lean against a doorway, my converse shoelaces brushing against the brick.
to stare up at an overcast sky and know that gray doesn't always need a slow, mournful soundtrack. to feel the paper between my fingers and on my lips and take a deep,
deep
drag.


I want
to empty my lungs of everything they have and watch it all curl, wispy and insubstantial--
watch it disappear into the bustle of moving cars as the coffee shop door tinkles while people in pretty scarves and
pea coats and
black-rimmed glasses
with fingerless gloves
and nose piercings
and black tights covering skinny legs
hold hands and exchange knowing smiles and
enter behind me,
and cold, February ocean wind lifts the tips of my hair.

I want to taste it--those few minutes of isolated reflection. It'd be like meditation beneath an awning on a city street.

Lately I've been feeling as if everything I'm writing belongs
under the kitchen sink with all the Comet and various brands of bleach and the
rest of the junk cleaning supplies that haven't been used since
the early nineties.

Ideas are scarce,
thoughts aren't making the cut,
and I feel like I'm in a more disconcerting version of ***** Wonka's glass elevator
riding robotically in this box,
puncturing others' moments with its corners like they're
gigantic, ecstasy-encompassed balloons
capable of doing nothing more than
launching weak waves of laughter
that languidly dissipate when they reach the
hard exterior of my cage

i'm a punching bag for expectations
they throw themselves at me the way every pro athlete yearns to be in the record books
the hall of fame
to get an interview on live national television
to hold the trophy that every Jerry Rice or Wayne Gretzky or Michael Jordan from history has held:
passionately,
obsessively,
with a fervent, unrelenting fire.

i was afraid of my wobbling knees.
it's funny how everything gets magnified when you're in front of a crowd. One minute it's
a-okay if you trip, poke yourself in the eye, stumble on your words,
because that's normal
and you can laugh it off,
because there weren't any consequences
but the next minute
the light is blinding you--
                                      you have no one's eyes to reassure you, because you can't make out their faces--
and you're alone,
squirming under the microscope,
caught in the worst trap
if only because it's not customary to cry for help once you're there.

And your job is to reveal yourself, flaws and all,
red face and all
sweaty palms and all
through a melody,
your voice and every single one of your
indescribable, raging, nonsensical fears
(what if I throw up all over the front row? Or what if I knock the stand over, inflicting that poor man with a ****** nose in the process, and THEN throw up all over him??)
the only things slicing the silence.

It's my birthday, and I'm a disaster. I'm searching for things to say.

I woke up this morning, wanting to see the sunrise in the beautiful small-town Maine eighteen degree-darkness.

I breathed out fog and watched sleepy houses, my fingers screaming for mittens, as I laid on the salted tar. I thought about everything.

Cars drove by slowly, and I was reminded of life here, and how slow it is.  

In this world, time drips on like molasses. Time wanders through pine groves and iced-over rivers, through quiet streets and underneath clotheslines. It is never overwhelmed. It's able to bask in moonlight and live comfortably. It's dependable.

When you walk around these places, you can see the ghosts everywhere. It's like coming home.

It hit me this morning, in the shower:

Maybe we were meant
not to remain together
every minute, every day or even every year
but to be there
so that when the bad times come,
each of us knows
we're not alone.

I walk with ghosts. They haunt me every day, and every day I remember.

I remember that time when we were going to head home. It was raining--pouring--and for the first thirty seconds after our realization of that fact we were unhappy, afraid of being wet and cold. Afraid of the shadows outside, and the rivers running tracks down the hill. We were uncomfortable. We wondered if we should wait it out--let the clouds cry until they fell asleep. Spend our lives under those fluorescent lights watching raindrops chase each other down grimy windows, our breath fogging the glass below our noses.

But then, something hit us. There was the act of waiting, staring down droplets like each and every one of them was a curse against us. . . or there was the act of forgetting. Letting go. Being free. A little bit of cold and wet was no match for us, whatever we were.

I remember the sweet sound of the heavy doors slamming behind us, and the feel of those first few raindrops hitting my eyelashes, my nose, my arms (which I had freed from my jacket so I could soak up every ounce of the shower). I remember we ran through the streets, yelling out the excitement that had materialized magically within us, laughing at the echoes bouncing off the quiet houses, at the strands of hair glued to each other's faces, at the sheer ridiculousness of our lives.

I remember throwing my bag onto the ground and breathing in chilly air. I remember watching the little splashes interrupting the calm surface of every puddle, and then throwing myself into one without a second thought, feeling the water flow over every part of me, and laughing as I stared up into the sky at the droplets falling into my face.

                {I wondered what it would be like to touch the surface of a falling raindrop. To freeze it in midair and have the satisfaction of holding it my hand, as if it were a diamond}

Soon they were laying beside me, our arms creating warm connections, and we were laughing and silent and laughing again, sharing the power of everything around us.

We made rain angels in the road, and I smile every time I think about it.

And then, the hurt hits me, like I'm back outside that day, only each tiny raindrop has transformed into a shard of those stupid grimy windows. I watch as they plunge into my skin, and I'm horrified because no one is there to tell me that my tears can't mix in with the rain that isn't falling.