Gone Postal

He admits that it's not you. You feel like a streamer in the wind, fighting against a slow storm, building on the horizon. There's a look on his face like it's hurting him, but also a look like he's excising you. Your love is a tumor to him, and it's not you, it's him but it's you.

A thousand cranes. That was the goal we set. Folding scares me, I told you, but you wanted the wish and we compromised. Baby steps. A crane a day, two hands, a thousand in five hundred days. Why not? Optimistic, to think we would make it that far. We didn't. We made it halfway, five hundred cranes waiting to be strung. I fold them flat in a box, wondering if wishes can be halved, if I can wish you half back, half here, which is what you were in the first place.

The cakes she made were never frosted on the sides -- a holdover from the war, really, when there was no chocolate and the rations dwindled. When I would visit, she would eat toast and bananas and tell me, proudly, that this was dinner. But I would have cake, cookies, ice cream, piled on the plate like an offering. She was ancient when I was young. The lines on her face made her look like she was always smiling at you. She smelled of yeast and baking chocolate. Age and time steal people, take them away from you. Now she is smaller and passes me on the street without a second glance. She forgets now and I can't bring myself to knock on the gate and have her open the door to have her ask who I am and what I was.

I am 27, and I am dying. The days blur into nights and mornings are no different from midnights - I stare at the sky and look for your face in the clouds. In the constellations that I see, but only in my mind. There is too much light, too much pollution, too much light pollution and the things I need to see are hidden. Or my sight fails me. Or I refuse to look. I am old, my bones ache at the thought of you, and ache even more at the thought of not-you. Was it Tuesday that you held my hand? When we kissed, was it hello or goodbye?

It’s been two hours since we both said we were sorry and yet I am still afraid to hold you. You’re quieter than usual, or we both are— and maybe we should stay like this some more: words thought of but not said, glances subtle but fully meant. This must be what an open wound left to heal feels like. I’m careful not to touch you. The questions I want to ask retract themselves. I didn’t really mean it, when, in the heat of the argument I said I couldn’t be with you anymore. The truth is we are happy, and nothing can change that except the senseless, sinking feeling that I will never be as happy as you.

It's the perfect excuse. Try everything at least once right. Try you at least once. Maybe everything would turn out fine as you slip your hand up my shirt. Maybe everything will work out this time with you as you push me up against the wall, tearing open my buttons in one go. Kisses running down a trail you've forged down my neck, down my body. In the heat of it all, maybe I'll make the best decision I ever have.

You tell me you feel sick. You look sick, I think, but I can't tell for sure. You place your hand on your neck. I place my hand on your neck. You're warm, I say. but you're always warm. I don't think about it but I think about it. Your hands, that kiss. I don't look at you but I look at you. Am I warm, you ask. I don't think about how you're always warm, but you're always warm.

I used to like going to museums and antique shops. Browsing the dusty shelves and faded labels felt like praying to memory. I used to like the stillness of 3 AMs and how that stillness unsettled some verbs in me. I used to like a lot of things: secondhand books, vintage eyewear, the word darling, or darjeeling tea, and now I know I no longer like those things. I feel like who I am is a long list of I used to's. Dear places erased. A favorite soundtrack I'll never listen to again. And friends assigned to the past tense. I feel all that I've ever felt, and I fear how unafraid I have become of detachment. I pray to memory. I visit an abandoned library of me. I used to like writing. It didn't used to feel like lying to myself.

Feel free to peruse the Who page to get to know us.

Thank you, darling :)

He tells you that you are beautiful. You smile and quietly thank him. He admires your knack for handling compliments. What you don't tell him are all the thoughts racing through your head. His perceptions are impossible. There is no truth in his words. You don't believe it, so they must be lies. A man who lies is a man you cannot trust. You watch his moves carefully, suspiciously, waiting for the precise moment you can catch him in a deceitful act and prove those lies you've explicitly weaved out in your head and be sure, so sure, that you were right all along. You were never beautiful to him. He never loved you. You maneuver his words and actions to satisfy yourself, to prove the one thing you've always wanted to prove: that all men are liars, all men are like your father. When you do this - and when you find yourself alone - you find the one thing you've come to fear the most. You love this man the way you love your father.

I fear that you prefer women who smell of flowers: the faint trace of expensive cologne, the slight shift of designer dry-clean fashion. Women who leave your bed scented with the distilled notes of roses or lilacs. You tell me you want this kind of woman, one bowed, unnerved, gloved hands twisting the kerchief, doting and silent. Soft smooth and white, perfect and untouched, only for your heart.

Why not. Please send in your suggestion through [email protected] and we'll let you know if and when it'll be the word of the month.

Hello! Yes we are! Stay tuned. We'll be back on the 6th of January at 11am promptly.

Hello there! We've been thinking about putting a submit button. Would you mind sending us an email at [email protected] so we can keep you in mind in case we do decide to push through? Thank you kindly :)

Long story short, come Monday we'll be back on your feeds again. Once a week, regularly. Hopefully. In five hundred words or less.

I used to be tough. After school, we'd turn out the lights and cover the windows with blankets before watching scary movies. All the other girls would scream their heads off, and I would watch them, wondering what fake blood tastes like. When we got older, scary movies weren't exciting enough. We stayed out late. We walked home, crossing the highway at 3 a.m. I thought I was tough. I was wrong.  They say kids shouldn't know their parents are afraid. There's some sense in that, but the truth is kids are the main reason parents are afraid. After you, I couldn't even leave the house without worrying if I'd make it back home. Sometimes I say you can't sleep over somewhere because you'll miss me, but the truth is, I'm the one who can't stand it when you're not with me.  I read the news and I wonder if there's any way I can keep you safe forever. In a few years, you'll be the one leaving the house, and I can't promise I won't sneak around to make sure you're alright. Also, to make sure I'm alright.