thoughts of things
my occasional writing.

your favorite movie

“I’ve got a plan for tonight,” you said as we walked out of the school, your hand in mine, my hand in yours. I asked what the plan was, but it didn’t matter that you didn’t answer me. All that mattered was a lovely evening with you to break up the monotony of the week. As I slid into my place in the passenger seat, my knees angled towards you as always, I considered the possibilities. When we pulled onto your gravel road and stopped in the shade underneath the tree, you announced we were making Velveeta and building a fort. Clearly, you knew the way to my heart like no other.

On the way to the garage with the macaroni, you let go of my hand for just a minute to grab a dvd case off of the table. I took it from you to see that it was The Princess Bride.

When the sheets and blankets were sufficiently covering the room and duct taped so the tv was visible, we put the movie in, and I relaxed into you. My shoulder fit just under your arm, my head in the place between your shoulder and neck, and my ankles wrapped up underneath me. You knew every line by heart, but didn’t say them all out loud along with the movie. You silently watched, occasionally tilting your head on to mine or adjusting your feet. Time passed and I sunk further into you, as close as I thought I could get.

“As you wish” you said, at the exact same moment as Westley. I turned to you and you were looking at me, grinning. We pulled closer, and I told you I loved you, too.

Now, it’s been nearly a year since we were last together. Tonight, you called to get my address to use me as a reference for the Navy. Tonight, when I asked you to call every once in a while to keep me sane, you said “as you wish.”

I spent the next hour mindlessly making spaghetti for one, missing you and wondering if that still means “I love you.” I certainly wish it could.

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baking cookies

The flour managed to stay

inside the bowl,

the butter just a small mess

on the countertop, and

the vanilla

in its bottle only.

The room smells delightfully

sweet and warm.

As I wash the dough

from underneath my fingernails,

I’m distracted

thinking

I would rather have

smears of frosting on my face,

flour in my eyelashes,

brown sugar finding

its way to my scalp

through my french braid,

and someone

like you to be messy with.

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May 13, 2012

As the discomfort in my

abdomen grows, and my body

begins to show all the

tell-tale signs,

I can think only one thing. How

would I tell her?

“Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,

I’m pregnant.

I’ll be a mother too soon enough.”

Or would that

not go over well? My

life has been spent

in comfortable admiration

by my mother,

praise, pride, privilege.

Now, when I’ve reached a point

of no return, do I just say

“I’ve fucked up”?

I think

I am going

to go live in the country

for a while,

where there are

many stars

and very

few people.

Stars are the one

thing that

cannot

walk

away.

Maybe I’ll learn from them.

He smells like cough drops

and a bit of super glue.

His muscles tense under my hand.

Every inquiry is prefaced with

“I have a question.”

He’s constantly asking “you know

what I mean?”

He can’t stand up to the word

please and is always afraid

of you knowing too much.

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Some girl

I will not be the one to stay in your bed

all night long, my arms wrapped around

your waist, my head asleep on your chest,

dreaming of what we have been and could be,

while you trace your fingers between

my shoulder blades, down, and around to my

belly button. I will not be the one

to look into your eyes, kiss your upper lip

so gently it’s almost as if we didn’t touch,

and slip under the sheets with you close by.

I can’t be that girl, if it means I’m just

some girl. Some girl you spent the week with,

holed up in your room watching sitcoms,

super hero movies, and the rain slide down

the window. Some girl you said you would

come back to visit when you’re on leave

from the Navy. Some girl who put

her heart on the line just to give you a

chance and see what it all could be.

You make me remember

Paul bends his head down and begins to play. I watch his fingers tense, relax, slide down the neck of his guitar. The notes are too familiar for my liking, and suddenly my eyes are closed, remembering.

We used to sing this song together on his side porch. The cicadas sang with us. His feet would rest on the wicker table, mine would be curled under my body. Occasionally, his dog would come out, put her head on my lab, and look at me expectantly until I scratched behind her ears. There was always noise inside from the many inhabitants of the house, even late at night when life slowed down and the only thing left was the tennis match that continued to play while his mother had fallen asleep in the chair, a blanket wrapped tightly around her.

Every vibration of every string echoes in my rib cage.

I open my eyes again and concentrate on his fingers. They remember the notes better than he does, finding the strings and frets on their own.

compatibility

I love: the way he dresses,

his dance moves,

the art which his fingers and mind creates,

and, of course, his face.

We share: a taste in music,

our nightly sleeping positions,

that subtle sense of humor no one else gets,

and a calculus book.

Somehow all of that becomes meaningless

when I confess

that I

do

not

follow

his Christ.

now

I’ve been meticulously

forgetting your name

for a year and a half. I’ve been telling myself

I’m too busy to get

lost in thoughts of you. I’ve been telling myself

my skin no longer remembers

your fingers. I’ve been telling myself

that every guitar string doesn’t

bring me back to love and lullabies.

Until now, I’ve been lying to myself.

Today, I could finally be honest:

I do not love you anymore,

I do not pray to hear your voice anymore,

I do not long for your smile anymore,

I do not love you anymore.

My breath is released with satisfaction

and the sound of thunder crashes and

shatters just like the glass case I had

built around my heart.

a series of tanka (for my lit class)

I wonder about you.

Where do all those scars come from?

Why did you come here?

My brain then loses focus,

captured by the sound of rain.

.

It is intriguing.

They say things about lightning,

how it strikes just once,

but I think they’re very wrong.

I think I’ve been struck again.

.

Someday you will know

the beautiful sound of fear,

the way it cripples.

You will have all the courage

to play with sparks and make fire.

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The song echoes in my head

the same way it did in your garage

as you held me and we danced

in the dark. The

hangnail that always catches in my heart when

I try to dig out these feelings

is gone, clipped off and disposed of.

I no longer get caught up in loving you.

I’ve finally dug the feelings out,

built a grave for us. Don’t let that get you

down, love, because there is still the headstone,

peeking out, reminding us

WE WERE HERE.

We were here.

A desperate scribble on stone, an

uncontrollable need to make sure

we are not forgotten. None of us

want to be forgotten.

Forgetfulness cannot capture

the way the calluses on your hands

balance out the smooth flesh of mine.

I still know that feeling, it remains just as

the beat of my heart

that used to skip upon contact with you

remains.

I want to know where your

scars come from. You are entirely

scar tissue,

hidden and visible. The

ridge between your thumb and

forefinger on your right hand is a

story I can trace

in the darkness.

.

You were something else,

before you met me. I was a

porcelain figure, smashed beneath the

mantel, pulling my pieces back together. You were

bruised and battered and smiling

like the corners of your mouth were the

only thing in this world

not affected by gravity.

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