thoughts & words

there’s a certain way a tear pools in the eye 

hot, urgent, demanding,

desperate and salty. 

there’s a certain way the throat clenches, 

cheeks prepare for an assault, 

I had a dream about you the other night.

We were sitting on the ledge of a dock,

Tan legs swinging, a green line of water unlatching our ankles.

I couldn’t make out our words, but the sun was beaming out of our faces,

As we pointed at ducks and laughed at the swimming dogs.

I could feel the light radiating through me,

And I thought, what a pretty portrait.

The wind prickled my arms and roused your perfect hair,

And I thought, when I am an old grandma,

I’m going to muse fondly of when I once sat next to this – 

With all the blissful naiveté and warm feelings that accompany 

That type of untarnished radiance. 

And then the strangest thing happened.

I was looking deeply into your sunny saucer eyes,

And watching the curve of your smile crinkle your cheeks,

When your face started changing – 

Blurring into the color of the lake, fading into the trees.

And I narrowed my vision, squinting to bring you back to focus,

And who sat before me, but somebody else.

Whom I recognized, suddenly and entirely, but wasn’t ready to see. 

And then I jolted awake – disturbed and flushed, kicking off my comforter and reaching for my water;

Crossing the finish line after running more than ever before, sweaty and beaming with a flood of pride. Sitting in a crowded apartment in New York, surrounded by close friends and swaying to our favorite songs, reminding each other our silliness and loyalty will never waver. Sipping in the smooth air on a boat in San Francisco, marveling at the opaque teal water and condensed skyline. Wondering what it feels like to make a life changing decision and not look back. Wondering if it might be time to move.  An intimate Italian restaurant with a bottle of red wine and a friend who is more like a sibling, exchanging vignettes of the past few months apart without judgment, laughing loudly until couples stare and bellies ache. Divulging in detailed stories of first dates, fourth dates, rude bosses and hurt feelings, and it all feels much lighter, washing down worries and smiling with stained teeth.

A solo walk in the city known by heart, but still discovering dainty side streets, picturesque havens cherished by their residents, an ideal future townhouse and a restaurant to try.

A game of Monopoly on Christmas Eve in the house that soon won't be home anymore, happy banter swirling around, warm and safe. A reminder of how strong the power of family is no matter what you’ve been through. A resilient force that overcomes, outlasts and loves every unlovable edge and imperfection that sits at the table. 

I only call you when I’m drunk. 

When there's no one walking me home and the streetlights hum a lonely yellow. 

The words fall from my mouth, hit the pavement, shatter like broken glass. I know you’ll scoop up the pieces into a neat pile, sweep up the mess so no one gets hurt. 

I ramble without consequence. Unedited ruminations: My friend is being terrible. What changes do I need to make? Why did I give him that part of me? 

Others scroll my Instagram feed, see my smile, buy my drink. But you hold these shards in your hand, heavy and sharp, the weight begging you to let go. I spit more thoughts, careless and reckless; stumble into the elevator, think of someone else. 

It’s time to hang up.

I tell myself. 

Don’t tell him that. 

I tell you anyway. I push the key into the lock and fling off my shoes. Your fingers are bleeding and the shards begin to overflow. I pour myself a glass of water. Grab some ice. Barely notice you’re wincing. 

Walk to my bedroom, slip off my dress. Hang my purse and let out a sigh. You tell me I’m beautiful and I should really get into a cab next time. But my hands are tightly clasped on my lap, twirling a gold ring. I watch your words fall to the floor, and remind myself to clean in the morning. 

That's all passion is. It is not much. It is everything.

From this day forward, never, ever let anyone tell you that you're not passionate. Forgive your mother for this, and give her your love. But never, ever feel fear and self-hatred just because the question "WHAT IS YOUR TRUE PASSION?" leaves you blocked by a big question mark, a big unknown that makes you feel small and stupid. When your mother implies that you're not passionate, it only shows that she has a bad memory. She can't remember the gravelly, unforgiving, uphill path she took to get here. She only knows that she earned those soft linens on the bed in the hotel room in Paris or Florence or Madrid. Bless her heart. You won't be like that, though. You won't forget what passion is made of. You won't pretend that it's something that descends like magic at cocktail hour, when all the work is done. The work is never done. You will learn to feel thankful for that, to celebrate it, to embrace it, someday. And even if you don't believe anything else I've told you here, believe this one thing: Those people with the biggest question marks are usually the ones with the most passion of all.”