slippery slope

when the air is still

and quiet

the puppy I brought home barks from her crate in the bedroom

(feeling sorry for herself)

I no longer desire to fill the silence

layered between us that is

ignored

like dust laden cobwebs in the corners of a skylight

out of reach and otherwise too much trouble to address

each argument a pebble

spit from my teeth

popping and rolling to a stop where it is

laminated by singular conversations

that go nowhere

and where are we now?

separated by a mountain of invisible pebbles

imprisoned within an intangible matrix of weeping serum

in the best of times

you don't reach for me

(and I don't reach for you)

you've never taken it before

(this is new)

but

does it speak to you

(does it speak of me)

that 

the first thing I do is check for your toothbrush?

relationships must have an expiration date

and ours is curdling

it is of greater concern that you might come back

in the middle of the night

disrupting my current with heat and turbulence

rather than stay wherever you went

I don't care where you are if it's where you've chosen to be.

love is a verb

twenty eleven

I knew I shouldn't have divulged like that.

So early, in the dark... With the lights out, his facial expression was concealed (if he even had one).

I love you. I said, though I couldn't be sure it was true. He just felt so big to me. Like someone who could finish what he started. Like someone whose arms fit right around my damage, my weary, my hope.

Before that, all he had ever mustered up to say was I think I'm falling for you after three or four too many drinks. Since the first night we met, it was no secret that I don't play hard to get. I was there for the taking. But instead I found myself giving (against my therapist's advice).

He didn't respond right away (he never does). But at least he held my hand through the night.

twenty fifteen

No one has ever asked for the privilege like that.

As if this were our first time and he wasn't sure if I might regret it in the morning. Tonight, it is my expression that is hidden.

May I make love to you? Plain words, but disarmingly sincere. He whispered in a voice very new to me. To be honest, the phrase make love solicits a somewhat hostile disfavor. It sounds trite. And it reminds me of New Year's night years ago when my sister was a baby and my step-dad insisted on making love to my mother in a hotel room so small I could feel their breath from the adjacent double bed. So, I guess that means I much prefer to fuck. Perhaps because my ex husband treated me like a B-side porn star. Perhaps because then, at least I know exactly what currency with which to bargain. Perhaps because I don't know the difference between a good love and a good fuck (giving it, getting it, wanting it).

A barely audible yes.

in the first degree

first glance

first kiss

first touch

first chance

Where does love go if it does not die?

If it never fizzles, fractures, or morphs into something ugly?

If it is not burned at the stake or strangled empty of all its good intentions?

If two people choose to walk away from a worthy thing because love is not enough?

Where does love go when we are simply…

over?

Will my lost love be shunted into a bank of unclaimed property, collecting dust until something triggers memory of its existence?

Will my saved love burn holes in my pockets and trickle out the bottoms until I have nothing left to give?

Or will I give it away too freely to underserving beneficiaries, uneducated of its value?

Will my quiet love find peace in another heart, in another town?

Will I bury it within my body, only until I explode with the madness of missed possibility?

Will I rest it on a shelf, high above arms reach, so that I can see but cannot touch?

(Please, God) Will this love fade into something more tolerable?

Or will it become impossible to say his name without resentment?

I am quite sure that love like this cannot die of natural causes.

No, love like this must be murdered. 

Mr. Sandman

but for a thin, deceitful fraction of time, in the disconcerting wake between the things you want and the things you have, I believed he was there, lying in bed with me

wake up

What might have been?

I guess that's what I wanted to say.

What?

That I thought we really had something here. That's all.

Me too.

So now it is I who should forgive the sweet liar (for no such optimism should go unpunished).

____________________________________________

He still tells me he loves me every morning

and as I emerge from a haze of restless dreams

I often wonder if, with each passing day, in these tragically sweet moments,

and before the commitment of dawn

if he means it a little less than the day before.

Overtones of disappointment punctuate our every move.
Our present is muted by our future and what might have been a great love recedes as quietly as it came. 

I study his face - 

his pores

the crinkles near his eyes
hints of silver at his temples.

He can stare at the ceiling, expressionless,
for so long

but when I ask him what he is thinking he says

nothing

and I'm afraid that I believe him.

Meanwhile

my brain is abuzz with sensation

constantly churning and negotiating and wondering

(overthinking)

and this is how I know he will do fine when I am gone for good.

we made no mistakes

Fingers crossed behind my back, I promised myself I believed in miracles

I made a choice.
And then spring came with a cool breeze and sunlight
(winter was gone)
and I wondered if I had made a mistake -

the kind of short-sighted blunder that romantic heroines pursue, only to come running back at the twelfth hour. 

No, he will never chase me. 

(I have to keep reminding myself of this simple and complicated fact.)

The humidity is almost unbearable now, but I'm holding out on the a/c for a while longer. He lets me lay close in the dark, even though he is too hot for covers.

He touches my spine, tracing the space between ribs. Rolling on my back, my leg draped over his - I pretend not to notice as his hands brush ever so slightly closer with each breathless, finger painted circle. He waits for me to invite him deeper and obliges when I cover his hand with mine, working softly to a place outside of my skin. He knows I cannot be saved but he pushes inside of me with a heart full of mercy so that I may at least forget long enough to drop off the edge of sleep.

Thank you. 

Constriction

slowly walking down the hall
faster than a cannonball...

standing forward
rushing upright
freezing cacophony
collimating light

deciding singular
generating forthright
focusing beam
shaping tonight

hushing whispers
loving slight
asking forgiveness

dysphoria despite

Truth and Consequence

I've toyed with the notion of tearing a page from this place.
A gift of paper folded into paper.

I would sit cross-legged, facing him, and slide it over the (sometimes preposterous distance of) wrinkled bedsheets between my knees and his fingers.

A piece of me.

He would lift it up and carefully unwrap it, meeting my eyes for a moment before looking down to find that he is holding my insides between thumb and forefinger.

I imagine his furrowed brow trying to translate.. to make sense of the context for a time much longer than required to read it through.
Did you write this? he might think aloud.
Is it true? because he won't remember.

And what do you suppose he would do with the tiny story I gave to him?
Would he find value? Or indifference?
Would he find me there? Or just strung out words?
_________________________________

No one knows about this sanctuary of mine. Not Jack. Not Laila. Not my little sister (who might be too wrapped up in her own life to read for the sake of being a part of mine, but who should one day stumble into this darkness because we are two old souls lost in time).

I could delete that last paragraph. That would tidy it up -- a little nip/tuck into something simple, something more complimentary of the Christmas packaging.

I might die forever in the sins of such omission. 
Would you?
_________________________________

Padma

sugar is smoking

by Jason Schneiderman

it's amazing how death
is always around the corner,
or not even so far away
as that, hiding in the little pleasures
that some of us would go
so far as to say
are the only things
keeping us alive 

___________________

Now there's a thought.
So, what keeps me alive?
...
< blinking cursor >
...

Ok.
Well, what could be taken from me that might make life unlivable?

< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

The obvious answer is involuntary heart beats and respiration.

breathe in. 
           breathe out
breathe in. 
           breathe out

No, no. That's not what I mean.
< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

What do I live for? 

< .. blink .. blink .. blink .. >

Sigh.
Honestly now. What keeps me going?

< .. blink .. Do you even want to keep going? .. blink .. >

Hold up. Of course I want to keep living. That's not what this is about.

The things I love are innumerable. I inhale deeply when sipping herbal tea at just the right temperature. I toss and turn without nightly terrier snuggles and I miss his acquiescence to my intermittent but smothering kisses. My heart stills when Jack tells me... well, anything, or when his lips brush my neck without any words at all.

I could begin recount them - my loves - but I fear that will not answer the question.

I have been through hell and back, you see. The house I built will fall. The people I love withdraw. The place I finally felt at home is in the rear-view mirror. And then what? Then should I say that I have nothing? No reason to live? What is the answer when you are a flower of a thousand petals left standing alone?

It is not the heavenly solitude of a morning walk under a canopy of live oaks. It is not the velvety rump of a brand new foal nor the way morning fog settles close to the ground so that grazing horses become apparitions in the sunrise. Not the indulgent fragrance of cinnamon wafting from the Mexican bakery. Not the low and slow lament of a wistful violin. It is not the creamy weight of extravagant stationary. Not the covert surprises in my luggage. Not Texas.

The answer, instead, is in the corolla of a lotus flower. For every petal that falls, there is another unfolding from within. To have a thousand petals is the richest guarantee that I will not be reduced to a sticky, quavering stamen after the blossom has been pulled, plucked or perished, one petal at a time.


he loves me
          he loves me not...
he loves me
          he loves me not...


It is not the herbal tea. It is not Jack, nor is it the terrier (though he is my favorite thing on the planet). But it is the delicate, linked array of all these loves that is keeping me alive. That keeps me going. That keeps life from becoming altogether unlivable.

As long as I love a thousand things, I am free of the weight of the world.
As long as I love a thousand things, I should be happy to die hiding in life's little pleasures.

Fourteen Ghosts

I am sipping from a cool, flimsy plastic water bottle that feels utterly out of place. A dank scent settles in the air space between floral patterned drapes and other pieces. It is a feature that single handedly betrays the age of this house. A polished brass chandelier is suspended, motionless. Smooth, antique bar back chairs are tucked around the perimeter of a burnished mahogany dining table. I am perched at the head, playing host to fourteen ghosts.

It is good to be away for a while, but this isn't quite what I expected. Gradually, I have learned the cadence of the house. I anticipate its creaky floorboards. Hollow clunking of pipes within the walls no longer triggers me to glance over my shoulder as I work. This is the last weekend I'll spend alone here because Laila is coming to visit next weekend, and Jack will be here to accompany me on the long drive home.

I wonder if you have to choose a single place to haunt. As a ghost, I mean. Or do you get to flutter between all of the places you loved? Is there a limit to the places a phantom might join you for dinner?

This Won't Be The Last -

First there is hope, shaded by silent promises and the warmth of being wrapped up in his arms.

This is followed by a pristine moment of clarity. 

(I had forgotten what serenity feels like.)

Clarity forges indifference to shield the war-wise heart, but leads directly to disappointment anyway. Thunder grinds away without the calm of rain. 

Sadness sets up and smolders deep inside, where there's no room for tears. 

La Dolce Vita

slick city streets slide through the glass
cateye sluggish squint slimming the haze of midnight
highway daubed with drifting design
my mouth is slippery in drink
declarations dubiously tethered between my ears
emancipate themselves, cascading through my parted lips
spilling into the dashboard
wretched hands folded inconsequential
unworthy of any ceremonious change
i will never be enough
for you
for anyone

liquid lull of resignation and windshield wipers
eschewing the plea
forehead against the window
i close my eyes
dissipating into la dolce vita

Tiny Elephant

Explicit bits of conversation weave in and out, moth-eaten in the fabric of us. Casual mentions of things to come - hiking in Cusco, grazing horses through the kitchen window, sunning on the Marbella coast, entrepreneurial wine bars...

Let go.
Just breathe.
Live now.

Dreamy paradigms prove difficult to live by when flirting with the future feels a little like lying. A deeply grooved proboscis wraps around my heart and tightens its grip when I insinuate someday. Ashed gray uncertainty deftly tugs me backwards when I slip.

Sans plans for the subsequent, what's the point?
The sex is good.
At what price am I lying to myself?

He wants to stay. Born and raised. And hell - we all know what I think of the snow.

Will I break his heart, too?

Oh, Hush now. We have weekend plans.

Inkblot

Not another word had been spoken. Yet, there it was.

That belt -

Nonchalantly hanging there. How long had it been hiding among the others?

Here is simple notion laden with mixed messages. Swirling in my muddled head, I can get lost. Misreading silent intentions, I am often wrong.

But he is a simple man.
Reel it in.

What was that?
Take each day as it comes.

And so the responsibility to trust in myself is on the agenda for today.


A pinpoint of love spreads slowly into an inkblot.

The rational thing

"When you're dreaming with a broken heart,

the waking up is the hardest part.

You roll outta bed, and down on your knees,

and for a moment, you can hardly breathe."

-John Mayer

It was something we both knew all along.
But over two days, the facts and expectations and inherent uncertainties of staying together slowly rose to the surface of the space between us and congealed into reality. 

We must be practical. 

I love him. 
And he loves me. 
I trust him. 


So there are endless roads to heartache, it seems. 
My head is pounding. 

Out of sync

Though I've never seen him wear it himself, I'm quite certain it should be retired from his wardrobe. It might be better suited to cinch dad jeans for a trip to the grocery store.

"I never said you could have it," he laughs.

I peer back at him, corrected.
For an instant I am hurt. I consider handing it back to him.

Instead, he watches while I continue to thread the worn leather around the waist of my cargo skinnies. Its silver plated buckle is tarnished and some of the stitching is frayed. There are palpable grooves just past the most frequently used notches. Of a recent and awkward vintage and with no monetary value, I think it suits me.

I smile and shake my head at him. He leans down to kiss me.

Resting on my hips, the belt is unexpected. Curious. Not trendy, but interesting. Unlike those marketed alongside brand new "boyfriend jeans" and boxy, oversize sweaters. But I wonder if the comfort in this belt, my boyfriend's belt, is now gone.

Later, as I get ready for bed, I carefully spiral it around my hand and slip it into his overnight bag while he brushes his teeth.

After all,
it doesn't belong


to me.

Christmas

December 25, 2012
11:54 PM

We lay in bed, facing each other. He exhales.

What?
Nothing. 
Nothing?
Just very happy.

With the pale, silvery street light filtered through the curtains, I can see the contours of his cheek. I touch my hand to his face.

He is smiling.

I want to capture this moment. I want to seal it in a Mason jar and hide it away because I am afraid that he will forget what it feels like to love me.

Like spoons in a drawer.

His arm is heavy at my waist. His chest is pressed against my back. He is not snoring, but the warmth of his breath on my neck is steady.

It is freezing outside. He keeps me warm. He wants me here.

It's not often that I feel small, but he wraps me up like a child. He keeps me safe.

And still I am unsure.

He loves me. He loves me not.
Is this for real?
I don't want to stay in this place. It's too cold.
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Goldfish

Reading genuinely inspires me. 

     To think. 

          To write. 

               To listen. 

Reading can put the world at your fingertips and opportunity in your reach. 

I wish I could encourage Jack's son to read more. He is all video games, cartoons and basketball. 

The attention span of a 

                                                                                         goldfish. 

He is demanding and spoiled. He gets what he wants with barely a whisper of gratitude. It's not his own fault, of course. He has learned that his behavior is acceptable. I watch from the sidelines, wide-eyed. 

These are delicate waters to tread. I offer subtle suggestions only as they relate to me. 

May I help him write thank you notes for his birthday gifts this year?

Perhaps you could let him know that I appreciate an answer when I speak to him, even if the TV is on?

What might I get him for Christmas besides electronics or sports gear?

I am nobody to give parenting advice. 

Do I actually resent having nothing in common with an eleven year old boy?

Fly on the wall

We just toasted to you.

The text message he sent from the bar was followed by another implying that my ego was at risk of inflating from all of the good things said about me that afternoon.

Alone at home, I had no response. 

I wonder if I would more likely believe the words if I were a fly on the wall.