essences and accidents

That’s what it is to fall in love.

I sat, an awkward torso atop folded legs, on the floor and attempted to arrange my face into an expression I could only imagine would be appropriate for a conversation about pet fish. I played with my hair, and then realized how much I was playing with my hair, but continued to play with my hair so that the others wouldn’t know that I noticed how much I was playing with my hair. The conversation ping-ponged back and forth between two women who were trying to outdo the other’s story about rescuing and adopting animals. One of them had a beta fish who apparently had 5 days to live, a questionable fact that an employee urgently conveyed to the woman over the phone. The other woman had a lot to say about beta fish. A third woman politely offered her condolences and assembled her limbs into a standing position, propelling herself from the room. She made it look so natural. If I hadn’t have been so high, I might’ve been able to imitate her movements, but I was, and so I tried my best to look as though I knew what was happening.

Early this morning, at approximately 0018h, I found myself standing among the ruins of my own good intentions gone wrong. I slowly blinked my way back into the present moment and looked at the scene around me: I had recklessly deployed my entire arsenal of health snacks... Wrappers, crumbs, a smudge on the counter, on my sweatshirt. I become aware that, sticking to the all-natural almond butter on the skin beside my mouth, are styrofoam crumbs from plain rice cakes. I am holding a glass of wine. I feel a faint discomfort in my stomach turn into a sharp jabbing pain. The mission was to get stoned and go to bed, I think to myself, over and over, as I tip what's left of the wine into my mouth, feeling resigned. I finished the meals I had prepared for the next two days. I was supposed to go to sleep!

Sometimes, everybody seems to love without prejudice, but if I were a legal document, I would politely inform you that my breathing is for you, and will only ever be for you. “With prejudice” marked at the very top of the letter, bolded for emphasis. I’m trying to learn how people can mark their letters differently than I, and move onward, recognizing the possibility of a different designation in the future. I can’t choose otherwise, my claim of “I love you” is sealed signed and witnessed: my affidavit, my solemnly sworn truth. Like a court-ordered fine, it must be paid; although I can admit that I'm satisfied just knowing that you're holding me. I am a debt that will continue to collect your interest. The account has been sold to collections and now the agency won’t stop calling you. But I never told them to go after you. I only ever wanted to tell you that I will love you until I stop breathing, “With pejudice”.

But I can never retrace the steps that led me to you.

Because you’re not high without her low

Once, in a dream, I was with you again. I held on to you and asked you to say something so that I could hear your voice. In my dream I knew I hadn’t heard it in a long time. “What do you want me to say?” you asked me, and I started to cry. It felt so good to hear you say even that. I said, “We only have a few more seconds. I’m going to wake up soon, and I won’t get to see you again”. I knew I was dreaming, I knew you weren’t real. I asked you to hold me anyway, because I knew I would never feel that way again. And I haven’t. Waking up was like black to navy blue to royal blue to white. A condensed, packed place expanded and expanded. I went from painless suspension to the feeling of being inside my skin. The sound of your voice still ringing in my ears, getting farther and farther away.

I see you all sorts of places. When I look away from my computer screen and out of the office window, I see you leaning against your parked car, Wayfarers on, waiting the three minutes till 5 o'clock. When I can’t sleep, I turn toward your side of the bed and touch the hollow of your back. You’re always hot. You radiated more heat when you slept than you offered when you woke. In my dreams, you are much physically closer to me than you are in my memories. Closer. An inhale away from a relieved lock of lips. In years, I won’t remember anything but your hairline. The first thing your newborn will ever recognize about you will be your hairline. I told you once that I stopped writing when you were here. Now you’re not and I can’t stop.

I roll over onto my stomach and prop myself up onto my elbows. I’ve managed to cocoon myself from the waist down in his sheets, but I don’t notice, because I’m trying to figure out the right thing to say. He does one line, two. It’s nearly six in the morning. I try to twist my face into a look that says, ‘I’m aloof and flirty and I’m not taking this too seriously’. I’m raising one eyebrow while smirking, giving him a look that is supposed to tell him that I don’t care if he wants me or not. He does a third line, a fourth. My face betrays me. He catches my look, says, “What?” “Why are you doing so many lines?” “What, are you trying to tell me ‘stop doing drugs’?” “No. Is that what you want me to tell you?" He considers this. Then he shrugs and pops a brown capsule for good measure, the same capsule I’d taken what seemed like days and days ago instead of just hours. He’d come to the Halloween party costume-less, and now I lay, naked and trapped in his bedding, and watch as he takes off his t-shirt and jeans. He crawls into bed, stiffly lays next to me on his back, and tugs the sheets back, unrolling me. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head away from me, as if to try to sleep. I wish I could hear his thoughts.

And it confirms premenstrual syndrome

summer 2019, west end toronto

missing you

early summer 2020