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

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. 

mélange

Sipping martinis and facing the street, we sit shoulder to shoulder in Midtown. Through the window, I recognize the restaurant where Jerome cooks. I turn to Laila and nod across the street. 

"The French chef."

 It's a matter of fact and, with an eyebrow and a smirk, it's also inevitable. She holds my hand as we dash across the intersection.

I've never been here before. Late enough in the night, the lights are dimmed and the atmosphere is pumped with music as patrons filter up to the rooftop. We slide onto bar stools and look around. 

"Ladies?" The bartender leans in and smiles. 
"Is Jerome on tonight?" Laila is drunk. And gorgeous. She inquires before I have the chance. 
"Well, it just so happens..."

"Did not think we would meet again." 

His arm is around my shoulders and his lips are at my ear. He is surprised to see me. No doubt my text message yesterday came unexpected. 

        Just found out that I'm moving. 
      I got a new job. 
      Sorry.

We had only been on a few dates. He invited me to visit his home in the countryside near Toulouse when he stayed over once. It never would have worked out. 

Tonight, we drink on the house. The mélange of liquor, heartache and this man's seductive accent invites me to act foolishly. 

No Such Thing

There is no such thing as a lovers' oath. - Plato

We were wary, emptied out and folded.
At least we had that in common.

The flowers arrived the day I moved in. They were safe. Platonic.  Delivered by a smiling girl between trips to and from the moving truck.
                 
                  Glad you made it. 
                     - Your first friend in Iowa

He started visiting once or twice a week, first offering to help me unpack, to hang my pictures.

I made him nervous.

All of these lines..

It crossed my mind to sell his passport to the highest bidder. 

That stupid, childish grin. 

We were going to be married. 

The tiny nose he inherited from his mother.. it never really looked right on a man's face. 

He has the bluest eyes. 

What an idiot.

He loved me then. 

My eyes seared into him as he quietly tossed his things into a single cardboard box. 

"I don't like this," he had the nerve to say. "I don't like you watching me."

"I want to see what things in this house you do care about." 

"Lu..." He looked hurt.

You deserve it, you fucking bastard. 

He filled the box halfway and withdrew. 

Abandon.