Among Post Oaks

But if the brown leaves had not

released from

every branch and twig

to disassemble the canopy,

which now looms gnarled 

and blunted

and exposed

and monochrome

in the morning,

You would not have seen

through them 

the brilliance of the sun

at the horizon 

with blinding

layered complexion

of peach 

and grapefruit 

and mango

Rays reaching your chest

invite you to rest

in this lonely season

still offering watercolor

fit for a storybook

sunrise centerfold

(but only to those

who choose to

look ahead).

Lies Our Mothers Told Us.

beauty, brains, and charm

you're a catch, they said

joke's on you, Gorgeous

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. 

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.

mundane

I used to love nights like this. 

After dinner, when the house was suddenly quiet and we stood alone together in the kitchen, surveying the mess: Purple-stained wine glasses clustered in the center of the table and dirty dinner dishes piled up in the sink. 

"That was fun, " he would say. 

"Yes. I do think everyone had a good time." 

I could taste the bourbon in his kiss.

We would get most of it cleaned up before falling into bed, feeling like such grown-ups. We were married now with grown-up things like matching dinnerware and crystal. We had married friends and threw grown-up dinner parties. We slept in a queen-sized sleigh bed we'd bought together and had a second bedroom that we called "the office."

Tonight it's just me, leaning against the sink, negotiating counter space for the dirty dishes and crystal.

For a penny

There is nothing lonelier than the company of someone else's family on a holiday. I should be thankful for the generosity and love, given freely and without judgement by these people who don't even know who I am. Instead...

I shrink.

I retreat to the bedroom. Or I sit in the corner, staring down at a book. I hear them telling stories in the next room. The comfortable small talk is deafening. It's not that I don't feel included, but that I have no interest in joining in. Oh, I can manage, for a time. I even enjoy it in small doses. But these holidays and weekend trips... all of this focused family time --

I am overwhelmed.

Unconditional love. Love without end. Irrevocable. Assured. Unequivocal. Indisputable.

That such a thing exists is staggering.

I have always experienced love with qualifiers. With doubt. Love that has been offered like a reward and then retracted when I no longer fit the definition of perfect.

I cannot sense unconditional love, and so it is certain that I cannot give it. Though my brain understands, my heart simply doesn't comprehend. It's being asked to describe the flavor of something it has never tasted.

The family that made me is disparate and shallow. Absolutely counterfeit, pawning "unconditional love" for a penny.

...

This perennial melancholy is imperceptible to them because I have pretty eyes.